by Anthology
“I’m sorry, Taz. Really. I—” Taz was never to discover what he was about to say because just at that moment Pix took a deep, ragged breath and sat up.
“Taz!” Pix cried and held out his arms. Immediately, careless of his own condition, Taz lurched toward him and gathered him into a chilly embrace. “I’m so cold,” Pix whispered.
“You’ll warm. Let’s get back upstairs. It’s warmer there.”
Pix remained immobile, gazing at Taz. “You saved me,” he whispered. Taz nodded, with a smile. “You’re an angel.”
“Or something.” Taz shrugged. “Come on, let’s get you warm.”
Pix couldn’t walk, and Taz was too weak to carry him, so the task fell to the totally stunned Rohan. As they climbed the stairs, shock caught up with Taz and his knees buckled. However, after a short pause to gather his thoughts, he picked himself up and pressed on. After that, he didn’t stop until they got back to the apartment. Taz paused at the door of the shop to thank the ghosts, who faded even as he said it. He hoped they’d gone to the door. He thought they might. They were all ready. The last to fade was the dark man.
“You saved more than your friend today.” The ghost’s voice was stronger. It surprised Taz.
“I know.”
“It’s time to reap your reward. It’s been a long time coming.” He gazed at Taz in a knowing way that confused him. The words were charged with layers of meaning Taz couldn’t fathom.
“What do you mean?”
The ghost smiled as his darkness faded to grey. “I don’t know,” he said, and vanished.
Over the next week, Pix and Taz spent most of their time at the flat, recovering. Pix was exhausted, and slept off and on for days. Taz didn’t mind because he had his own wounds to lick. Despite it all he was as happy as he had ever been. If only separation hadn’t hung like a pall over everything, it would have been perfect. He would have been content to settle and stay there forever.
The haunted house had changed hands, but despite fear of disaster, the shop survived, and indeed the popularity grew, fuelled by public curiosity about the house, its ghostly residents, and the new owners. Taz spent what time he could there, doing readings or occasionally charting horoscopes, something he wasn’t good at and didn’t like, but which was lucrative and popular.
Exactly a week after the incident in the cave, Taz woke up knowing he had to leave. He didn’t wake Pix for two reasons. First, he couldn’t bear to say goodbye, and second his thoughts and memories were already fading and he wanted to spare Pix the pain of seeing that in his eyes. So he got dressed as quietly as he could, picked up his bag, and walked out into the cool morning. This time he was on his way to Hastings, and for once he had money to ensure he was comfortable when he got there.
By the time he arrived in Hastings, Taz’ time in York had faded completely from his memory. He found a cheap but comfortable hotel and settled in. He was still weak from his excursion into the demon realm, and although he wasn’t sure why he felt as he did, he decided on an early night and settled down to read his book. He might not remember what happened but he would have written an account and he probably needed to know.
Carefully unwrapping the book, he turned to the last page and froze. There, in a beautiful, delicate hand, someone had written:
I know you don’t remember me, but I remember you. I’ll never forget you, and I’ll never love anyone the way I love you, right now and for always. You saved me in more ways than you can know. You are, and always will be, my angel.
Pixie
Below the words was a pencil sketch of an angel with soaring wings of white feathers. The angel’s face was familiar. He saw it every day when he looked in the mirror. The sketch was exquisite. Funny, he hadn’t thought Pix was such a talented artist. Sure, he had a sketchbook full of sketches, and a few paintings gathering dust in the bedroom, but none were near this standard.
Wait.
He remembered the paintings.
A flood of warmth flowed through him along with a wash of memories. Nothing from before he arrived in York, but everything after. Everything. Every detail. Every thought. Every feeling.
With fumbling fingers, he reached for the hotel phone and dialed a number. When the voice answered it brought tears to his eyes. “I remember you,” he said. “When this is over, I’m coming home.”
NEPHY HART was born into a poor mining family in the South Wales Valleys. Until she was 16, the toilet was at the bottom of the garden and the bath hung on the wall. Her refrigerator was a stone slab in the pantry and there was a black lead fireplace in the kitchen. They look lovely in a museum but aren’t so much fun to clean.
Nephy has always been a storyteller. As a child, she’d make up stories for her nieces, nephews and cousin and they’d explore the imaginary worlds she created, in play.
Later in life, Nephy became the storyteller for a re-enactment group who travelled widely, giving a taste of life in the Iron Age. As well as having an opportunity to run around hitting people with a sword, she had an opportunity to tell stories of all kinds, sometimes of her own making, to all kinds of people. The criticism was sometimes harsh, especially from the children, but the reward enormous.
It was here she began to appreciate the power of stories and the primal need to hear them. In ancient times, the wandering bard was the only source of news, and the storyteller the heart of the village, keeping the lore and the magic alive. Although much of the magic has been lost, the stories still provide a link to the part of us that still wants to believe that it’s still there, somewhere.
In present times, Nephy lives in a terraced house in the valleys with her son and her two cats. Her daughter has deserted her for the big city, but they’re still close. The part of her that needs to earn money is a lawyer, but the deepest, and most important part of her is a storyteller and artist, and always will be.
Nephy Hart can be found at:
Website: Nephylim-author.blogspot.co.uk
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Nephylim.author?ref=hl
Twitter: @SevenPointStar
Chapter One
CALLUM STOOD waiting. He enjoyed this time between dimensions, where seconds and minutes, hours and days seemed the same. He had just been given another assignment. This one, like all the rest, didn’t seem important, but none of them ever did. He didn’t mind. His job was to try to fulfill the assignment, not to judge its merits. That was God’s job to figure out.
Callum concentrated on his charge, and on the time and place optimal for his assignment’s success. Abruptly, he was in the middle of a grassy field, smack dab in the center of a college campus. He waited to step through the dimensional shift, feeling the way first as he’d been taught. He immediately sensed the pull all charges exerted on their Guardians. Callum smiled inwardly. Humans believed only they were ever assigned angels. Humans were mostly wrong about many things.
In this case, Callum was assigned to a human. The pull was intense, much more than normal. He looked around. His charge must be very close. However, there was no sign of Rory McFadden anywhere. This was extremely unusual. Every other time, when Callum concentrated on a charge, he was right beside them, or at the very least, he knew exactly where they were. Somehow, this time, it was different. Callum deepened his concentration, and found him. Rory was in a dorm across the park.
With only a thought, he drifted through space, unseen and unfelt, until he reached an eerie-looking red-bricked building. He floated into the door, along the hallways, and then straight up, passing transiently all the layers of floors, ceilings, furniture, and even a few humans.
He stopped when he reached a small room. His connection with his charge was almost blinding. He focused on the room and the person in it. This was standard procedure—to get a feel for the individual in order to get a better idea on how to help.
Callum’s mission was a simple one—find a way to prevent Rory from attending a fraternity pledge party tonight. Callum did not know why this was important, bu
t somehow the party would be bad for Rory, and that was a good enough reason for Callum to intervene.
Callum looked at his charge. He saw a young man who seemed slightly younger than his eighteen years. He was drumming his fingers in an attempt to help himself concentrate on his studies. Rory was majoring in computer engineering. He was quite talented in that regard, although he didn’t think so himself. Rory slid a hand through his dark brown hair in frustration.
Without thinking, Callum reached out, and although he remained In-Between, he lightly touched Rory’s hair, to smooth it back to its original almost-perfection. For some reason, Callum couldn’t help himself. He placed a hand near Rory’s right shoulder and kept it there. Callum couldn’t exactly touch Rory physically in this plane of existence, but he wanted, no, he needed to feel Rory’s energy, his soul.
Callum felt a jolt, unlike anything he had ever felt before. Rory’s soul was pure; well, as pure as the soul of any human could ever be. Suddenly, Callum felt energy wash his hand. Somehow, Rory had felt him and had absentmindedly placed a hand over what would have been Callum’s, if Callum had actually been in that plane.
Callum had heard of this happening before, but had never experienced it himself. Sometimes, somehow, some humans were sensitive to the energies created by their protectors. The sensation was so overwhelming that Callum needed to vocalize his feelings. He bent down to Rory’s beautifully shaped ear and whispered gently, “Don’t worry, Rory, I will protect you.”
Callum was thoroughly unprepared for what happened next. Rory shot straight out of his chair, all six feet two inches of him, and shouted in a remarkably sensuous and thoroughly surprised voice, “What? Who’s there!”
As Rory paced from one side of the room to the other, anxiously looking for the person at the other end of the voice, Callum had a decision to make. He didn’t like seeing his charge in distress, especially since the distress was his fault. He thought for a long while about best alternatives, and then created what he needed. Satisfied with his efforts, he concentrated once more, choosing the best moment of time for reentry. Then he shifted so he was outside Rory’s dormitory door and materialized into the earthly plane.
Callum had had the responsibilities of a Guardian for a very long time. Even so, the sudden dimensional shift was disorienting. Everything on this plane of existence happened so fast. Time zipped by. It was somewhat disconcerting. However, Callum got over it quickly.
It had only been seconds since Callum had left Rory, at least in this plane, and he took a moment to read Rory’s thoughts. He could tell that Rory was upset. It seemed this kind of thing happened to Rory a lot. Callum was sad for him. It appeared Rory was on the verge of going to a hospital to tell someone he was hearing voices in his head.
Callum knocked on Rory’s dormitory door. Rory answered in a huff, but then his jaw dropped. Confused, Callum read Rory’s thoughts again. One particularly strong feeling bombarded him: lust. There was also one prevailing thought: “Oh my God! He’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen! What is he doing here?”
Callum was curious about this thought. He quickly assessed his charge. As a Guardian, and an angel, Callum, although not immune to feelings of lust, greed, anger, or envy, had different criteria in appraising such things. Humans were such fleeting creatures, and their standards changed so quickly, that Callum was indifferent to those of physical beauty. Although, in today’s world, Rory did stand out. He was tall, with very dark hair, emerald green eyes, light complexion, slim yet muscular in body. He was intelligent and charming. Even so, Callum was more interested in the quality of Rory’s soul—pure, strong, courageous, mostly honest, loyal, and loving.
Callum then looked at himself through Rory’s eyes, and he jolted in surprise. A Guardian had the ability to take any form needed to succeed in a mission, which was usually dependent on the individual being protected. Callum had taken a variety of them—mostly male when a human—of varying degrees of physicality.
This time around, Callum had thought to be physically attractive to Rory. The fact he was male wasn’t surprising. Attractiveness is relative. God’s plan is complex. Those who thought they understood it were simply deluding themselves.
What was surprising was that Callum appeared to Rory as his true self, or as close to his true self as was possible in this earthly realm while still seeming to be human—tall, dark hair, very dark eyes, and extremely fair complexion. Guardians did not have wings—he wouldn’t be sporting any in this plane, obviously—not if he wanted to appear human. Incredibly, his facial features were his own, although, to him at least, they were quite dulled. Apparently, they were just the thing to attract Rory—he was almost drooling.
Callum decided he could use this, as he addressed Rory in as sexy a voice as he could muster. Rory deserved sexy. “Hi there, sorry to bother you, I was delivering these pamphlets for a party tonight and thought you might want one.”
Callum handed Rory a pamphlet for a party at a local gay club. It was a replica of a real one, and the party was also real. Callum hoped Rory would be enticed to go to that, and not to the other event, the dangerous one.
Rory gave Callum an incredulous look, full of want and desire, questioning why such a creature as Callum was even at his door. “H-hello. Thanks. Um... how did you know to give this to me? Do I know you? Have we met before?”
Lying is a sin; Callum knew that. He was an angel. Angels were expected to live by the rules set down by God. To do his job right, though, sometimes Callum had to skirt the boundaries of those rules. Besides, the rules were not as cut-and-dry as many people thought they were. Callum contemplated a second before giving his reply.
Rory McFadden was not one of Callum’s regular charges. They had never met before, although Callum could read Rory’s soul and knew him quite well. “No, we haven’t met, not officially. I’ve seen you around campus. I asked about you. Hope you don’t mind. Anyway, maybe I’ll see you tonight?”
Rory’s smile sagged. He looked conflicted. “I’m sorry. I promised a friend I would go with him to a party tonight. Is this going to be a regular thing? Maybe I could go next week. My name is Rory by the way.”
Callum read Rory’s thoughts once more. He saw that Rory had known this friend since primary school, had even had a crush on him for a while.
Callum smiled outwardly, but inwardly he was nervous. In most situations, a Guardian did not have to divulge a name. The Guardian remained unseen, did the assignment, and left. In cases where a name was required, the Guardian would wait for divine inspiration. It was not a lie if God sent a temporary name to you. A Guardian’s true name held a good amount of power. Guardians never gave them out.
Callum sighed; then he breathed in. He concentrated on a name, and then vocalized it. “Hello, Rory, my name is Callum.”
Chapter Two
CALLUM WAS stunned. He had trusted God would give him the name he needed. The fact he had just spouted out his true name was unsettling. Callum had to trust that what had just happened was meant to be and that there was a very good reason for it.
Even though Callum was sweating, his pulse had quickened, and he felt as if he wanted to hide, he kept the unfamiliar feelings suppressed. For the first time in a very long time, Callum felt vulnerable.
Callum smiled at Rory, not knowing what to say. Then an unfamiliar voice, just behind him, interrupted Callum’s thoughts. “Rory, who’s the guy, and why are you two goggling one another?”
Callum turned to find an attractive young man glaring at him. He instinctively reached out to feel the new person’s mind and was stunned to hit a figurative brick wall. All Guardians had the ability to read the minds and souls of their assigned charges. Others were usually readable to a certain extent. It was considered good etiquette only to read surface thoughts of those for whom Guardians were not directly responsible.
However, this new person was completely unreadable. Callum could not even get his name. He’d come across this problem before, but never to this ext
ent. Whoever he was, someone from the Other side, most likely a demon, was influencing him dramatically. It was the only explanation. God had very little influence over him. Callum wanted to weep.
He had bigger problems, though. A suspected demon’s agent had just asked him his name. He did not want to give any name, much less his true name. He solved it easily by turning to the newcomer, nodding, and saying, “What’s it to you, bud?”
Callum looked at Rory, who seemed to know instinctively what Callum was doing. “Steve, this is really none of your business. We just met. If you have to call him something, call him Cal.”
Steve stood there, as if he were waiting for Callum to do something. Callum judged that a human in his position would feel uncomfortable at this point, and so he feigned it. He started to slowly back up. “Well, anyway, maybe I’ll see you around, Rory....”
Callum saw Steve’s reaction. He was tempted to stop him—Rory needed protecting—but humans had a right of choice. Besides, all Steve did was rip the pamphlet from Rory’s hand to read it. “A special event at a gay club?”
Rory clenched his fists and pressed his lips together tightly. His heart was beating faster, and not in a good way. Callum could sense indignation, a little anger, embarrassment, and even some fear emanating from his charge, although no one else was likely to notice. When Rory spoke, his voice slid into his upper register involuntarily, though he quickly lowered it. “Steve, I’m gay. You’ve had years to get used to it. I came out to you when I was fourteen for crying out loud. It’s not an offense to be invited to a bar.”
Steve stepped between Callum and Rory. Callum could not believe that Steve actually put a hand on Rory’s waist. It was very possessive, especially for someone who wasn’t gay. Rory actually sighed, and Steve leaned in to whisper, “Rory, you know it’s not that. I just want you at the party tonight.”