by A. J. Norris
Assuming “the back” meant through the French doors, she speed walked all the way. Poofing didn’t seem like a good option at the moment, especially as suspiciously as they were watching her.
The door opened as she raised her hand.
Elliott. Oh God, Elliott!
She threw herself at him, flattening her cheek to his bare chest. The thick muscular pads were a comfort. She wrapped her arms around his waist. His naked waist.
“Why don’t you have any clothes on?” She tried to look behind him, but he blocked her view.
“You’re not allowed to bring anything with you from Earth.”
“What do you mean?” She angled her head up so she could see his face. He looked miserable—bloodshot eyes, blotchy face. Her angel had been crying.
A lot.
“What’s in there?” she asked.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-EIGHT
Amalya
Elliott closed the door, or it closed itself. “I went home.”
Not what she expected to hear. “Can I see it?”
He stroked her hair. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Amalya, you can’t because you wouldn’t survive.”
“What do you mean? Is it Heaven?”
“We don’t call it that.”
“What do you call it then?”
Elliott grasped her biceps gently, his eyes searching her face again. She shied away from his scrutiny. Releasing her, he went over to a bench to retrieve his clothes and got dressed.
“Let’s go.”
She nodded. “How long were you in there for?”
“I don’t know, you tell me. How long has it been since you’ve seen me?”
“No way to tell time, huh?”
“Um…”
“Kinda like Netherworld.”
“Mmmm, not exactly.” He smiled.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that it was actually Nether-like, I meant—”
“I knew what you meant, Amalya.” He took her hand and led her up the pathway. This time none of the angels paid attention. When they were in the lobby he pushed the button for the elevator. They rode up to the first floor in silence. After they got off, he pulled her into a darkened hallway off the main area of the club. There were two doors marked ‘Private’. He opened the door on the left into a small empty closet of a room. Once inside with the door locked, he turned to her. “I’ll meet you back in the apartment. Just teleport there.”
“Tele what?”
“Poof,” he said, then he was gone.
Amalya arrived outside the apartment where the slightly open door greeted her. A blood trail led inside. “Oh my God.” She flung the door open so hard it bounced off the rubber stop and slammed shut. More blood led into the kitchen. Crimson soaked snowy feathers were strewn about, some stuck to the carpet.
“Elliott!” Rationally she knew her angel didn’t have wings and the mess on the floor couldn’t be from him, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t panic. Her heart raced. Dread crept up on her like a sickness. “Elliott!”
Sitting on the floor in a pool of blood, Elliott cradled Joelle’s head in his arms. Rocking him on the tile, Elliott wept like an open faucet. Deep, jagged gashes surrounded by blistered red skin ran diagonally from Joelle’s waist to his shoulders. Balding wings spread out from his back. Joelle’s thumb twitched.
He’s alive, thank God.
“He’s been stricken from Earth. He’ll be…gone soon.” Elliott didn’t look up. Just sobbed.
“I saw his—what? I thought, I thought you guys didn’t die? What’d ‘ya mean, he’ll be gone? Stricken?”
Amalya knelt next to them in the smeared bodily fluid that looked like someone had slipped on and fell, likely Elliott, given the dark stains on his clothing.
“He…when I got here, he was laying here. I saw him take his last…breath.” His voice faltered. “He’ll move on without me…I need him…We’re s-supposed to stick together. I cannot follow where he goes.”
This was a death, at least for Elliott. He’d lost so much. “What happened?”
“I should have been here. I-I failed him. I wasn’t ready for him to leave…he wasn’t ready. Oh God.” Elliott leaned his head back and wailed, tears streaking his blotchy, puffy-eyed face.
“What are you talking about? You couldn’t have known this would happen. I’m sure he knew that.” She reached out her hands, wanting to touch him, comfort him, but she didn’t really know how. How would he react? Would he embrace it or push her away? My God, she was such a chicken shi—
She froze.
Beginning in the center of the dead angel’s chest, light began replacing the physical flesh, taking over bit by bit, spreading like wildfire until only a glow existed where the body had been. Elliott held on during the entire process.
The light dissipated. “No!” he cried. Then he crumpled over and laid on his back, one leg bent and the other straight, forming the number four. His arms were limp at his sides. His head lolled with unblinking eyes, his cheek pressed into the blood. His hair turned red. He seemed to be experiencing his own death.
Amalya wanted to leave, the suffering was too much. However, all she’d done her whole life was run away, even in the afterlife. She thought of her sister’s daughter, Hazel. Tonight she’d run too, avoiding the pain. The only time she remembered not running was the day she’d been murdered. Even then she wanted to, but the look on Brandon’s little face made her want to fight for him. He deserved a second chance then, so why not now? She beat Reed once, why not again? She needed Elliott, and she needed him strong, not lying on the kitchen floor wallowing in his misery or imagined failure. She stood.
“Get up.” When he didn’t budge, she nudged his leg with her foot. “Elliott, get up!”
No movement.
“Get. Up. Now!”
A groan.
“Elliott, Goddammit! This isn’t only about you. Move!” Defeating Reed and redeeming Brandon couldn’t be done on her own. This was the reason Elliott was still assigned to her. Finally, she got it.
Rolling to his stomach he propped himself up on his hands and knees, whining.
“Oh, shut up,” she scolded.
“Gimme a minute, will you? Fuck.”
Time was wasting and they had a life to save. She glared. The mourning of Joelle would have to wait. Elliott lumbered to his feet and swayed. Amalya put his arm around her shoulders and marched him to the bedroom, then into the bathroom.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” She leaned into the tub and cranked the shower on. The water pressure sucked and the spray sputtered for a few seconds before the steady stream kicked in. After sliding out of his shoes, he stepped over the lip fully dressed.
When water hit his back he arched. “Heeeeee ahhhhh!”
“Is it cold?”
“Yes!” he said, adjusting the knobs.
Amalya moved to the mirror. Her own appearance startled her.
Jesus…I look like crap.
Red-rimmed eyes and rats’ nest hair were such a great look. Leaves from the bushes clung to her feathers. No wonder everyone at the Eternity was staring at her.
After shucking her filthy clothes she got into the shower behind Elliott. His body stiffened, which she ignored. “Uh, it would probably go a lot faster if you took your clothes off, don’t you think?” she said. “Oh, and soap would help.”
Crossing his arms in front, he grabbed the hem of his waterlogged t-shirt, lifting it. The bloodstained Fruit of the Loom plain white smacked the porcelain and stuck to the inside of the tub.
Amalya gasped and at the same time tried to stifle her reaction to his unhealed wounds. Although she’d seen them before, they still looked like strips of skin had been gouged out. Raw and fleshy. Deep. But they no longer oozed bodily fluids or showed bone or the muscle tissue beneath. “Does your back sting?�
�
“A little. Can we not talk—?”
“I know, I know. Sorry.”
He sighed and unzipped his jeans. He drew them down by turning them inside out. Stepping on them, he pulled his feet out of them one at a time. The socks came off with the pants.
He wasn’t completely naked. The black boxer briefs remained in place. They had to go and were undoubtedly bloody.
Amalya closed the distance between them, planting a kiss on his spine. He grunted. “Oh shit, did I hurt you?”
“No, I just thought it might. Involuntary reaction. Sorry.” The passion which usually laced his words wasn’t there. Monotone would be how she would describe how he spoke.
She eased around him, stood on her tippy toes, and put her arms around his neck. His eyes were closed and his wet lashes clumped together in spikes.
“Elliott,” she whispered, “I need you to be stronger.”
He nodded. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask.” Tears formed in her eyes and her vision blurred. She faced an eternity in the bowels of Hell if one or both of them didn’t get their act together. Soon.
His arms encircled her smaller frame and she lifted her wings to accommodate him. He rested his forehead in the crook of her neck. Water rained from above. She felt proud of herself for the first time in forever. Maybe she was good at something after all. Amalya the Comforter. “All right let’s get you shampooed,” she said.
With one last sniffle he squeezed Pantene into his palm. “Turn around. Let me wash your hair first.” He plucked a leaf out of her hair then massaged the shampoo into her scalp. He rinsed her hair, running his fingers through it. She moaned the whole time. It felt unbelievable.
Washing his longer locks took more time. She played with this hair while it was lathered, forming long, straight points all over his head that flopped over as soon as she let go. He looked amused, although not able to crack a smile. Not even a crooked grin. She didn’t blame him. He allowed her to have some fun.
When they finished with the soap round and the water ran clear, Elliott cupped her breasts from behind her, flicking his thumbs over her nipples.
“Oh!”
A driving need took over below her waist. His fingers found her core and he pushed his middle finger into the heart of her. Her back arched into his chest. Withdrawing his finger, he ran it up her cleft, finding that tight bundle of nerves.
“Oh God…oh…yes.” She felt his rigid cock slide into the space just below her butt, between her thighs. He moaned in her ear.
Two fingers pressed inside again. Her knees weakened. She gripped his hand around her midriff for support.
“I want to taste you.”
Every part of her loved the idea. “Mmmm.” When she leaned down to turn the water off, he stopped her.
“No. Here. I want you here.”
Yes, please.
They eased downward and Amalya’s legs flopped open. Elliott licked her sex. His tongue turned to magic. She cried out his name. With his mouth where she wanted it, he reached up and fondled her pink-tipped peaks. Her hips pumped in a steady rhythm, bringing her to the brink of an orgasm.
“Oh. Oh. Oh…uhhhh…”
He popped his head up.
No…don’t stop.
She swiped at the air, her hands searching for him, not connecting. Gripping her thighs, he lifted her bottom, driving his steel shaft past her feminine folds. Her hands squeaked on the bottom of the tub as he jerked her forward.
Opening her eyes, she looked up at his straining body. Angels were made, she’d learned, and each one was perfect, although different. Elliott had chiseled, well-sculpted muscles everywhere, lean and solid, not bulky like a ‘roided up pro-wrestler.
They breathed in short, quick huffs. Elliott’s cock felt thicker with each push, stretching her. And the friction…oh, the friction. More and more the tension built, growing exponentially until the pressure was too much.
“Elliott!” she screamed as her inner walls contracted. An expression of that’s right baby spread over his face.
The change in the sounds of his groaning meant he was getting close to exploding. “Amalya. Oh God! Yes!” His erection kicked and jerked, spilling everything he had inside her. “Hmmm…oh…” He blew out calming breaths then slid out and gently lowered her hips.
Holy crap. Greatest. Sex. Ever.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-NINE
Brandon
The house sat in the middle of a cul-de-sac in a quiet neighborhood, where sprawling homes overwhelmed their tiny lots. Brandon felt edgy. He wrung his hands and banged his melon three times on the headrest of his car. Missing friend’s car.
Whatever.
Like it mattered at this point. The guy was probably dead in a ditch on a desolate highway in the middle of nowhere, where he’d be soon too, if he didn’t get this job done.
The shortly to be dead dude, Charles Montgomery, gobbled dinner with his wife every night at seven PM sharp, including last Friday at their formal dining room, which could be seen through the front window. Today was Thursday, the night before Brandon picked to commit murder. After the meal, Montgomery watched TV in a room at the back of the house. This Brandon discovered by casing the exterior. The wife left Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings, returning a few hours later in workout clothes. While she was away was when he planned to do the deed.
It occurred to Brandon more than a few hundred times he shouldn’t be doing this. Another visit to the old lady across the street from Damien proved he would never leave him alone, nor Mrs. Bishop. There was only one way to ensure that Angela didn’t wind up on a slab at the morgue with a bullet in her brain.
According to Damien, the mark owed him money and was a criminal living a lie, not an innocent bystander like his geriatric neighbor. Whether this was true or not, Brandon wasn’t certain. He didn’t have time to waste figuring it out.
Careful planning including an exit strategy if things went sour, as in if the wife showed up early or an alarm was tripped, wasn’t something Brandon had going for him. His plan; enter through the garage door by breaking the window, find the guy, and shoot. Simple. Yeah right. He needed to get hammered tonight and knew of a party.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Amalya
Who knew the afterlife could be this awesome? Perhaps the best sex of her life was due to Elliott’s grief, but who cared? Unfortunately, she would have to ruin the mood soon. Amalya left Elliott sleeping. He’d finally dozed off from pure exhaustion after one AM.
She found Brandon’s car in the garage with him passed out at the wheel. The windows were rolled down. The feather plucked for this occasion she laid on the seat next to him with a note attached. It read
‘Please’.
Letting herself into the house, she discovered a wonderful smell; dried dirt, a musty-stale mix of grass clippings and skunk. Ah, weed. It smelled wonderful. She shook her head.
Not healthy, not healthy.
A ratty brown couch sat in the living room across from two equally shitty country blue chairs. Empty pizza boxes with congealed mozzarella lay open on the floor. Ick. She focused on the coffee table, a laminated pressed wood eyesore with cheesy gold plastic trim. On top, amid old Car & Driver magazines, a stack of Maxim’s, and beer cans, lived drug paraphernalia—Zig Zag rolling papers, a lighter, pipe, and a baggie only containing enough marijuana for one or two tokes. Virtually useless. She snatched the snack bag and stuffed it into her pocket then swiped her arm across the table, shoving everything onto the floor.
She plucked another plume, placing it on the coffee table. Four more feathers were set around the house in locations she thought Brandon might find them, each with a one word note laid alongside it.
Before leaving she checked on the soul. Yep, still passed out. She stared at him, wondering what his story was. She had to figure out how to help him. It was research time. Hopefully the angels back at Eternity had some connections. Anything that could help him make the r
ight decision was worth investigating and she only had a day to figure it out.
***
“Have you tried Google?”
“Google? What the hell is Google?” Amalya asked after Tanner, the Guardian angel, suggested it for ideas on how to find out more about Brandon Smith.
Elliott shrugged with his hands out. “Don’t look at me, I was in Netherworld for the same amount of time as you, remember?”
Tanner sighed heavily. “You really don’t know? Come on, Max has a laptop.”
Max the Healer, as it turned out, was the guy who’d been watching her suspiciously since arriving at the basement of Eternity. The hot pink hair actually looked good on him, although, Amalya thought he could do without the furry pants.
Tanner waved him over. “Need to use your computer.”
“S’cool man,” Max said, bringing a MacBook with him as he came over. He sidled up and nudged Elliott in the shoulder. “Doing all right?”
Elliott didn’t give a response.
Tanner fired up the laptop. “Let’s see here…Brandon Smith.” He typed on the keyboard, bringing up a mostly white screen with the word Google across the top and a long box below it. He entered the name into the space and pressed ‘Enter’.
A listing of sources appeared on the screen. They scanned a few and visited those pages. The Brandon Smiths mentioned were not her Brandon.
“Can you search for events, like maybe my mur…I mean when I was killed? He was there.”
Tanner nodded. “Need a date. Some specifics.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Last week, I dunno. Twenty years ago, first week of March, nineteen ninety-five. On M125, south of Monroe.”
My God, twenty years and six months in Hell.
“My—the killer’s name was Reed.”
Elliott’s posture stiffened at the one syllable name.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked, taking his hand in both of hers.