by Terri Garey
“Nathan.” She had to nip this in the bud. “We’re just here for a visit, and Finn is just a friend. Nobody’s going to marry anybody.”
“Why not?” He took a seat at the table, regarding her curiously. “Don’t you like him?”
She swallowed, uncomfortable. “Of course I like him, but that doesn’t mean I want to marry him.”
“I like him,” he said, reaching for a muffin. “And he likes you, I can tell. He’s always smiling when he looks at you.”
“He’s just being nice,” she said, wishing he’d talk about something else.
“Nope.” Crumbs flew as Nate talked around a bite of muffin. “You’re not paying attention, Mommy.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she said automatically, reaching for a strawberry.
“He thinks you’re pretty,” her son said.
“Enough,” she scolded, appalled at how pleased she was at the thought.
“But you are pretty,” he insisted. “And besides, I don’t want you to be lonely if . . .” He trailed off, taking another bite of his muffin.
“If what?” A cold finger of foreboding trailed her spine.
Nate just chewed, looking at her.
“If what, Nathan?” She didn’t like this, not one bit, but she had to know what he was thinking.
He finished his bite and swallowed. “You know, Mommy,” he answered simply.
“Nate.” She was out of her chair and on her knees beside his before she knew what was happening. “Nothing is going to happen to you.” His little arms were so slender, his chest so thin. She gripped him tightly by the shoulders, forcing him to look her in the eye. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, I swear.”
“It’s okay, Mommy.” The look in his chocolate brown eyes was wise beyond his years. “The angel told me not to be afraid. He said he’d be there for me, whatever happened.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “What—” She licked lips gone suddenly dry. “What did you just say?”
“The angel. He came to me last night while I was sleeping, and told me not to be afraid.”
Faith sank back on her haunches, stunned.
“He had long brown hair, like a girl’s, and his face was all bright and shiny.” He nodded his head, warming to the topic. “I’m pretty sure he had wings, but it was hard to tell, because he was so bright. I think I heard them flutter, though.” Taking another bite of his muffin, he regarded her calmly, obviously serious about what he was saying.
What was she supposed to say? Deny that angels existed, and take away what had clearly been a comforting experience? Or agree with him, and acknowledge the possibility that if demons existed, so did angels?
She felt a flash of anger, and looked away so Nate wouldn’t see it in her eyes. If angels existed, then where was God, and why had He let this happen to them?
Silent, shaken, Faith got to her feet and slid back into the chair opposite Nathan’s. “That sounds like a nice dream, baby,” she murmured faintly.
“It wasn’t a dream,” he stated emphatically. “Well, it kind of was, but it wasn’t; it was real, I know it was.”
She didn’t want to argue. “Either way, it sounds really nice.”
“It was,” he agreed. “Can I have another muffin?”
One more muffin and a big glass of orange juice later, Nate gave a jaw-cracking yawn, his energy level obviously beginning to flag.
“Time for a nap, I think,” Faith said lightly, determined to behave as normally as possible under the circumstances.
“But Finn said he’d be back. He said he’d teach me how to play the guitar.”
“Later,” she replied. “He said later. Right now, I think we could both use a little rest, don’t you?”
Another yawn sealed the deal, so she got up from the table and held out a hand. “C’mon. Let’s find our room.”
They left the kitchen and entered a hallway that went both left and right. A quick peek to the right revealed an empty dining room with a table large enough for twelve people and bright, abstract paintings on the walls. They turned around and went the other way as Faith tried to mentally picture the way the house looked from the beach. If she was correct, the guest room they’d awakened in this morning would be just a few doors down. An open door at the end of the hallway proved her correct, and with a sigh of relief, she pulled Nate inside, then closed and locked it behind them.
“Let’s get you out of those wet shorts,” she said, both relieved and irritated to see a familiar SpongeBob backpack at the foot of the bed, right next to her own battered suitcase. In no time she had him changed and tucked beneath the covers with his stuffed dog, his earlier protests forgotten as his eyes drooped shut. Within minutes, his breathing was deep and even.
While he slept, she took a much-needed shower, leaving the door open between the bedroom and bathroom, and changed into clean clothes of her own: her favorite white T-shirt and khaki cargo pants. The ring was still in the pocket of her jeans, wrapped in foil, and though she briefly considered hiding it somewhere in the room, she couldn’t bring herself to leave it, so she slid it into a side pocket of her cargos, making sure the Velcro tab was securely closed.
“Time to find a way out of here,” she murmured to herself, touching Nate’s chest on the way to the door to make sure he still breathed. Old habits died hard when you were a mother, and she’d been doing that since he first came home from the hospital as an infant, so tiny and helpless.
Reminding herself that although he was no longer tiny, he was still helpless, she unlocked the door and slipped into the hallway.
There was no sound, nothing, but she knew the house wasn’t as empty as it looked. She flitted through it, her sneakers making tiny snicking sounds on the tile floors. Most of the windows faced the beach, and all the rooms were beautifully decorated in varying shades of blue, beige, and gold. One thing that struck her was the absence of personal photos or mementos; the house looked like a designer showplace, without the finishing touches that would’ve made it a home. When she found the front door, she was elated, until she realized it was dead bolted, with no key. A couple of side doors were the same way, the only one unlocked being the kitchen door she’d used earlier. A staircase with a wrought-iron railing led upward, but she saw no reason to go that way, refusing to give in to her own curiosity. She wanted out, not up, and she felt enough like a voyeur already, creeping around all by herself.
A rumbling noise froze her in her tracks. She listened, hard, and then realized what it was—thunder, low in the distance. Glancing out a nearby window, she saw dark clouds on the horizon, where the ocean met the sky. It was still sunny out, but obviously wouldn’t be for long.
Worried that Nathan would hear it and wake to find her gone, she headed back toward the guest room to check on him.
Opening the door as quietly as she could, she peeked in, and found the bed empty.
Her son was gone.
Chapter Twenty-three
“I don’t care whether you like it or not, you will do as I say,” Samael the Fallen said implacably. “Get in that tub and wash. You stink.”
They were in his private bathing chamber, where the air was thick with steam, the oversized tub filled and ready.
“Yeah? Well, you don’t smell so good yourself,” Cain returned defiantly. “And I’m not doing it.”
He’d known his son for less than an hour, and found him stubborn, rude, foul-smelling and completely, utterly fearless. If it weren’t so irritating to his nose and ears as well as his psyche, he might’ve felt some stirrings of pride over the fearlessness, but his short stint as a father had already left him ready to strangle the boy with his bare hands.
“Your time among the imps has soiled your mind as well as your body,” Sammy said, restraining his temper with an effort, “if you think to challenge me.”
Cain shot him a cold look from ice blue eyes. “And who do you think you are,” he asked mildly, with a self-possession he’d never have believ
ed possible of a nine-year-old, “the fucking prince of Persia?”
Nyx stepped forward, saving his master from the sin of patricide. “You are addressing His Satanic Majesty, Son of Morning, Prince of Darkness, and Lord of the Underworld. Keep a civil tongue in your head, or I shall beg his permission to rip it from your throat.”
Those blue eyes, so disturbingly like his own, flicked briefly over Nyx, then back to Sammy. “You’re . . .” For the first time, the boy seemed to have no ready reply. “My mother said . . .” He looked away, swallowing hard. Then he squared his small shoulders in a gesture that Sammy reluctantly recognized, and opened his mouth to say more, but was forestalled.
“Nyx is correct in listing some of my titles,” the Great Shaitan said quietly, “but I believe it might be best if you just called me Father.”
They stared at each other for a moment, Sammy once again getting the feeling that the boy was far older than his years.
“Mother claims you’re all-powerful,” Cain said, “so I suppose that means I have to do what you say.”
“Your mother is a wise woman,” Sammy lied.
“No, she isn’t,” the boy replied, calling him on it. “She’s silly, and vain, and way too nice for her own good.” Then, surprisingly, despite the tenseness of the moment, he smiled, displaying teeth that looked astonishingly white against the sooty grime that covered his face. “Which is why I usually get my way.”
“Well, you’re not getting it today,” Sammy said, resisting the pull of that megawatt smile for all he was worth. “So get in the tub.”
Cain shrugged, stepped out of his grubby loincloth without a shred of modesty, and did as he was told, though his expression showed him clearly not happy about it.
“Nyx will be your instructor for the next few days,” Sammy said, knowing his lieutenant would prefer to be boiled in oil than to babysit, but not caring. Now that he’d found the boy, he had no idea what to do with him, and needed some time to think. “You are to do as he tells you without argument, and go nowhere without him.”
Cain’s attempt to give him a sullen look was spoiled as he picked up a bar of Sammy’s favorite clove-scented soap and took a sniff. “That smells good,” he said, and immediately rubbed it in his hair, smearing the bar with sticky black goo.
Inwardly Sammy sighed, knowing that particular bar was ruined. His tub was going to need a thorough scrubbing, too; the water was already turning gray. “It’s made especially for me by the dryads of Eternia,” he said wryly, “and it’s not meant to be used as shampoo.”
“What the hell is shampoo?”
A heathen. The child was an ignorant heathen.
“Shampoo is what Nyx will use to wash your mouth out if you don’t watch your language,” he returned, watching with interest as Cain scrubbed dirty, soapy hands over his face and head. “You’re too young to use profanity.”
Cain ignored the reprimand, dunking his head beneath the water. When he came up, scrubbing slightly cleaner hands over his face, Sammy watched with interest as his features were revealed.
A straight nose, much like his own. Persephone’s chin, though the shape could change as the boy grew older. The eyes, of course, were unquestionably his, and the hair—well, it was still too filthy to tell, but if it matched the boy’s eyebrows it would be blond.
In a corner of the tub, behind Cain, a curious water sprite emerged, wrinkling her pretty nose at the dirty state of the water in which she found herself. Her cat-eyed gaze flicked curiously over the boy, then toward her master, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. Silently she slipped beneath the surface and emerged a few moments later holding aloft a beautiful bottle made of iridescent glass. She placed it on the tiled rim of the tub, where it made a slight click as she put it down.
Cain whirled at the sound, quick as an adder, and snatched the sprite’s arm before she could withdraw. Alarmed, the sprite’s eyes widened, and she bared pointed teeth in a snarl.
“Whoa,” Cain breathed. “What are you?” The very male appreciation in the boy’s tone was unmistakable.
Sammy, who’d been about to interfere, said nothing, merely watching as the sprite took Cain’s measure. Slowly she pulled her arm from his now slackened grip, allowing her snarl to fade. Once free she withdrew to a corner, cocked her green-haired head curiously, then favored the boy with a slightly coquettish smile before slipping, once again, beneath the surface.
Cain, dark runnels of dirty water dripping from his hair over his nine-year-old neck and shoulders, gave Sammy another one of those megawatt smiles. “I think I like baths,” he said cheerfully. “Can I take another one later?”
Beside him, Nyx gave a low chuckle. “Oh, he is definitely your son,” he murmured, giving His Satanic Majesty a red-eyed wink.
Sammy scarcely knew how to feel about such a statement, much less respond, so he turned and strode from the chamber. “Watch him until I return,” he snapped, “and make sure you keep the horny little devil on a tight leash.”
“What do you want, Gabriel?”
Unsettled, Sammy had gone to one of the few places that always managed to give him some measure of peace. He visited the Sistine Chapel often, privately admiring Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, which held a rather good depiction of him in the lower right-hand corner. The chapel was closed at the moment, of course, as he’d never been able to abide crowds, so when he heard a footfall, feather-light, and smelled the scent of sandalwood, he knew who it was without turning.
“The artist seems to have made you a bit pudgy,” said Gabe, coming up beside him. “Everywhere except where it counts.”
Turning his head, Sammy glared at him. “A bawdy joke from one so innocent. Careful the One doesn’t strike you down for your blasphemy.”
Gabriel shrugged, examining the painting closely. “There’s nothing blasphemous about the human body,” he said mildly. “I was merely pointing out that he’s given you a penis the size of a peanut. And your head . . .” He shook his own, brown-haired and shining. “That head, though handsome, is not nearly large enough to contain your colossal ego.”
“If you’re trying to provoke me, it’s not going to work.”
“Ah. Lost your sense of humor somewhere in the darkness, I suppose. ‘Blessed are those who can laugh at themselves, for they shall never cease to be amused,’ ” Gabriel quoted. “One of the unrecorded Beatitudes.”
Not for anything would he show his amusement, so Sammy turned away, strolling toward another fresco. Gabriel followed, for all the world as though they’d come here to offer their joint opinion on man’s conception of the heavens.
“I never took you for a Catholic,” Gabe said idly, as they perused scenes from the life of Moses. “Yet here you are at the Vatican. Something to confess?”
“Your sarcasm is wasted on me,” Sammy returned, though it wasn’t. “I enjoy beauty in all its forms, whether it be in a chapel, in a field, or in the arms of a woman. You, on the other hand, are limited by the narrowness of tunnel vision. You see everything as black or white, good or evil, with no shades of gray.”
“I am limited by nothing,” Gabriel replied, “save my love for you.”
“Careful, Gabriel,” he mocked. “The church frowns on such things.”
“You know exactly what I mean, and don’t pretend you don’t.”
“Love,” Sammy scoffed, peering into the eyes of a painted saint, virtuous and pure. “How can you believe in love after all these years?”
“I needn’t experience it physically to know it exists. I see in the wondering eyes of a new mother or the steady, peaceful gaze of a faithful spouse. Surely you remember our early teachings, Samael. ‘And there remain these three: faith, hope, and love . . . and the greatest of these is love.’ ”
“More platitudes? What do you want from me, Gabriel?” Sammy’s anger, temporarily set to simmer, began to boil. “Why do you keep showing up to annoy me when I’ve warned you to leave me alone?”
His old friend shrugged. “You demand
ed your way with Faith McFarland, and I gave it. I said nothing as you shamelessly used her love for her terminally ill son to get what you wanted.”
Privately relieved to think of something—anything—other than his own recent paternity issues, Samael watched as Gabe leaned in to better examine the cherubic version of the baby Moses, rescued from the bulrushes.
“I haven’t interfered while you turned her into a thief, made her pander her body for gain, or had her kidnapped,” Gabe went on. He turned, facing Sammy directly. “The least you can do is offer me an explanation, even if it’s all lies.”
The lies were right there, on the tip of his tongue, as they always were. He could tell Gabriel anything he wanted, pull the puppet strings just to watch him dance. Eyeing his erstwhile brother narrowly, he considered it, then did the opposite. “My methods may not be yours, but I’m doing what’s best for Faith McFarland, whether it seems so or not.” His chin went up a notch. “She was in danger of becoming a dried-up spinster. What kind of mother would she be if she allowed no one to get close? And”—he smiled, as though at a private joke—“if I can get something I want in the meantime, it’s nobody’s business but my own. Finn Payne is mine, and has been for some time.”
“You don’t like him very much, do you?”
Sammy rolled his eyes at the stupidity of the question.
“You don’t like him because he reminds you of yourself, and because she likes him.”
Anger stilled to cold, freezing him before a colorful fresco of Moses’ journey into Egypt.
“The dark-eyed girl, the one you claim not to love.” Gabriel continued to stroll along the north wall of the chapel, wisely keeping himself out of reach. “She likes his music, plays it in that quaint little clothing shop of hers all the time. Great taste in fashion, by the way.” He paused, holding out his arms so that Sammy would notice his shirt. “Levi’s button-down, circa 1965.”
“You bastard,” Sammy said, in a tone only a fool would ignore.
“You’re jealous of the musician,” Gabe stated, ignoring away. He shook his brown head chidingly. “How very petty of you.”