A second later, Amy steps back.
“Who are you?” she asks. “How did you get into my home?”
Jessup frowns and saunters to the front door without responding.
“Do I know you?” Amy asks.
“No,” Jessup lies. “I’ve made a mistake. This is the wrong home.”
Although I’m sorry for Amy and even Jessup, I’m not at all pleased with the hypocrisy.
Jessup is the one who forbids me from raising my son because of his rules, the very same rules that he’s breaking at this moment.
How many times has he done? How many more precious moments could I have spent with my son?
I’m done following the rules of a hypocrite.
If our team leader is going to risk exposure to see a loved one, then so can I.
I’ll have to be more careful about it and make certain no one is tailing me, but my mind is made up.
I take the fire escape down the side of the building and head in the direction of the school district.
5
Risking All for Love
From the sidewalk, I look up and down the street as children stream out of a Catholic middle school through double doors under the watchful eyes of priests and nuns.
My heart almost leaps out of my chest when I spot Noah. He’s fourteen with a mop of sandy hair hanging in his face. His eyes are dark like mine, he’s taller than the other kids his age, and he possesses a gracefulness in his stride that’s befitting a wizened sage.
I’m beginning to worry that his Nephilim blood will manifest soon, and he’ll be thrust into a war that I want as far away from him as possible.
He deserves a happy childhood. I want a better life for him, but if he does become powerful and develop the strengths of both human and angel, I’ll have no choice.
I’ll have to teach him everything. My hope is that I won’t have to make that decision for a while yet.
He clutches his backpack, slides through the mob of students, and darts across the street.
I look both ways and cross to the other side.
“Noah,” I cry out.
He wheels around and smiles when his eyes meet mine. He runs over, kisses my cheek, and rummages in his backpack.
After several excruciating seconds, he pulls out a stack of wrinkled and stapled papers and hands them to me.
I peruse the first page of the paper, which is marked by a ‘D’ in red ink in the upper right corner.
“A ‘D,’” I say. “How’d you get a ‘D’ on a religion paper?”
“Because the stuff you told me about was made up,” Noah answers.
“No. It wasn’t,” I reply.
“Uh-huh,” he retorts. “Father James read from the Book of Revelations—”
I interrupt him. “Revelation, kiddo. No ‘s’ on the end there.”
“Whatever,” Noah says. “There wasn’t anything in the book about the archangel Michael trying to invade Hell after Lucifer fell from Heaven, and Father James looked really pissed—”
“Language!” I spit.
“Mad,” he says, correcting himself. “He looked really mad and asked me where I heard about an invasion of Hell, and I said I heard it from my babysitter.”
I’m not his babysitter. I’m not allowed to watch him anymore either.
That’s all going to change now that I’ve discovered Jessup breaking his own rules.
I did, however, pretend for years that I was his nanny so that I could be close to him.
That was before the hypocritical Jessup called me out on it and threatened to force me off the team.
I could have fought it, but my ex couldn’t keep a secret, and when the rest of the team found out I’d lied about giving up Noah to a blind adoption so even I wouldn’t know where he was, everyone sided with Jessup.
Hence, the final straw that led to Jessup being the team lead.
Jessup was right about one thing, though. We can’t let the demons become aware of our offspring.
The Nephilim are the children of the ‘sons of God’ and the ‘daughters of men’ who are half-angel and half-human.
An ancient verse runs through my mind. ‘The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went into the daughters of humans, who bore children to them. These were the heroes that were of old, warriors of renown.’ Genesis Chapter Six, Verses One through Four. The sons of God being fallen angels.
In Noah’s case, however, I’m a ‘daughter of God’ and lay down with a ‘son of men.’
Noah is unknowingly a son of an angel and a man. There’s no telling how he’ll turn out.
The Book of Enoch Chapter Seven, Verse Two speaks of the parallelism in their divine nature combined with human nature, inferring that the Nephilim are superhuman beings.
The footnotes in the Jerusalem Bible also suggest that the Nephilim are a superhuman race.
How a Nephilim develops and whether he or she grows superhuman powers is a matter of random chance or divine destiny, as history has shown.
Some become giants. Others are mere mortals.
Most turn evil, hence the Deluge, also known as the Great Flood in the time of Noah’s ark. They’re more akin to fallen warriors than fallen angels.
The fact that Nephilim have the potential for great power serves as a temptation to the forces of evil.
The biggest unknown when it comes to my son, though, is how such a child will manifest his nature when the angel is his mother.
The Book of Enoch and the Book of Jubilees connects the Nephilim directly with fallen angels, in particular, the egrḗgoroi—Watchers. That’s us.
“I fear ye will not indeed agree to do this deed, and I alone shall have to pay the penalty of a great sin,” I mutter under my breath.
“What’s that?” Noah asks.
“Nothing, love,” I say. “I was just distracted, thinking about something that you don’t need to worry yourself with right now. Tell me more about school.”
I’m not even supposed to see Noah at all. It puts the team at risk and could alert the enemy to a potential half-human, half-angel.
I’ve grown less and less used to the sound of calling myself that. To humans, the word angel has a gentle sound to it, even peaceful.
I’m anything but peaceful, though. When I was under Heaven’s grace, I was feared.
If I were to tell a random person who I am now, I imagine they would think of me as some kind of guardian angel. I don’t even know where that moniker came from.
We certainly are guardians, in a way, but we are most certainly not here on earth to be peaceful.
Nor, are we meant to build families and lives for ourselves.
We have a responsibility. We have to make amends.
After finding out what Jessup’s been doing with Amy, though, I’ll do as I please. He’s one to judge.
“And,” Noah says, interrupting my thoughts. “A-and, well…” His voice trails off.
“And what?” I ask.
“And,” Noah begins, “he asked if you were smoking drugs.”
I suppress a smirk.
“I’m not smoking drugs,” I say and laugh.
“Are you sure?” Noah asks.
“I think I’d know.”
“Well, ‘cause of what you told me I have to write another paper on some guys named ‘Dante’ and ‘John Milton,’” he says.
“The Divine Comedy and Paradise Lost?” I ask.
Noah perks up. “You actually know about them?”
At my nod, he continues.
“You’re not punking me, are you?” he asks. “Because I cannot risk getting another bad grade. Dad will be so disappointed.”
“I punk you not,” I answer. “Although, I’ve always thought Milton was a bit of a punk himself, while Dante was kind of cool.”
“How come Milton’s a punk?” Noah asks.
“Because he’s sort of like the Jonah Jameson to Dante’s Spiderman in Spiderman,” I say. “He watched over everything from o
n high. On the other hand, Dante waded into the thick of it, saw some of the worst things anyone can imagine, and did what I always tell you to do.”
“‘Fight your way through and finish what you start’?” Noah asks.
I nod as he eyes me warily.
“So, can you help me with the paper?” he asks. “Promise you won’t let me down?”
A twinge of pain sneaks into my voice as I reply.
“I promise I won’t let you down. Not ever,” I say.
Noah pulls out his cell and starts playing a video game while I walk him home, making sure that he doesn’t stray into the street.
Just before dusk, we reach Noah’s home. It’s almost a townhouse but not quite.
It’s more like a ‘shotgun home,’ except with two stories. It sits nestled at the end of a suburban cul-de-sac, narrow and economical.
Noah gulps down the last of a beignet from a stand we visited on the way back. He wipes his mouth with his forearm.
I try my best not to say anything about his forearm not being a napkin.
A station wagon pulls in and Noah’s father, Jenkins, who’s in his thirties and still a knockout, exits the vehicle.
His muscles are so taut they can’t be hidden by his mechanic’s getup while he unloads groceries.
He was a mixed martial arts fighter before we had Noah and a damn good one at that. He gave it up so that he could focus on our son.
It was how we met, though. I was taking lessons from him to try and learn some new moves.
When his eyes fall on Noah and me, he waves, head cocked as he gapes at us.
We wave back, but it’s obvious from the look of worry on his face that Jenkins is concerned about me walking Noah home.
“Is it just me or is your father sporting his somewhat annoyed and overly worried look?” I ask.
Noah nods. He puts his cell away.
“I’m thinking he’s gonna be full on annoyed when he sees what you got on that paper, ace,” I warn in a whisper.
Noah’s head sinks as I lean over, grab the paper, stuff it in my back pocket, and wink at him.
“How about we keep it a secret between you, me, and our good buddies Dante and John Milton for the moment,” I say.
Noah beams as I hold up my knuckles.
“Little love for your former nanny?” I ask, choking back the urge to tell him I’m his mother.
Noah bumps my fist as we head inside.
“I don’t need a nanny anymore,” Noah argues, “but it would be nice if you came by more.”
I fight back the feelings and swallow them. What am I supposed to say? This is likely a one-time thing.
As angry as I want to be at Jessup and break the rules, he is right about not exposing our children to the war. It’s too dangerous.
If the other side finds out about them, we risk putting our loved ones in harm’s way. At least we have this evening.
A little later, I tuck Noah into bed as the candles cast strange shadows on the bedroom walls.
Slivers of moonlight from a partially open window filter down over Noah as a melodic song drifts in through the window.
A small glass statue of an angel watches over his bed from the nightstand.
I steal one more glance at my son and close the bedroom door.
Then, I head down to the couch and collapse.
Jenkins smirks and begins rubbing my shoulders.
Candlelight flickers and fills the room with calm as Jenkins makes his way behind the couch.
“Lie down,” he says.
I’m happy to oblige and stretch out onto my stomach. I’m tense and full of too many thoughts from a long day.
Jenkins runs his palms over my back and presses hard at first, then pulls back and gently runs his fingers tenderly against my skin.
When he reaches my shoulders, he curves his hands and runs his nails along the sides of my neck, leaving a light-red impression behind.
Then, he brings his hands up to the sides of my face and rubs against my temples in a circular motion until I begin to finally relax and allow myself to become vulnerable in his grasp.
He moves from my temples down to my chin and rubs beneath my jaw with firm but gentle caresses.
My tension begins to release.
Then he finesses his fingers through my hair, sliding through my raven locks, which have slivers of crimson mixed in, with precision as he glides along my scalp and sends shivers down my spine.
His breath is warm as he edges closer and reaches down to caress my thighs.
He begins kneading my tense muscles, causing my nerves to relax. Pushing hard but not too hard.
In a single, fluid motion, he flips me over.
Then he runs his elbows over my breasts, loosening the built-up knots.
He presses his forearms against my sides, running them along my ribs.
Unexpectedly, Jenkins swoops around to my feet and begins rubbing them with a steady touch, working out the tightness.
Being with a mortal is always risky, but the temptation to revisit intimacy with Jenkins grows by the second.
He’s always respected my need to be untethered and not gone off and been with anyone else who could compromise my identity out of jealousy, rage, or envy.
He’s never even complained about other lovers, which he could do. It’s not his way, though.
He prefers not having to tend to my needs all the time. He sees our moments as ours and other moments as a part of my life that doesn’t match with his.
He gets that we’re different but still connected.
As he kneads my ankles, though, my eyes begin to flutter. I haven’t slept in days, and it’s catching up to me.
I try to fight it, but it’s one of those strange and pleasurable drops into sleepiness when you’re aware that it’s happening.
Within seconds, I sink into the couch, and my mind drifts off.
A little while later, I wake to the sound of Noah calling for me.
I rush up the stairs, skipping steps, and rush into his bedroom.
6
Home Invasion
Noah’s eyes flutter as he sits up, rubs his eyes, and grabs a penlight from his nightstand.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, running my right hand over his forehead. “It was just a dream. Let it go.”
“It wasn’t just a dream,” Noah replies. “It felt real.”
“I understand that. I believe you,” I reply, “but it still was just a dream. It doesn’t have to be something we bother ourselves with. Not now.”
Noah’s face sinks. He seems disappointed. Curiosity is getting the better of him.
He’s already too much like me. I dread the day I have to watch him carrying a weapon of war. I don’t want that for him, but it might not be my choice.
If it does happen, though, my desire and wish is that he will have inherited his father’s compassion and gentleness and my ability to end the lives of our enemies no matter the cost.
“Come on,” he begs. “There’s something outside. Let’s see what it is.”
His curiosity is drawing him to the enemy. He hasn’t experienced enough to know how dangerous it can be.
At the same time, I don’t want him so shielded that he doesn’t truly make his own decisions.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I reply. “Your father said it’s bedtime.”
“I wanna see,” Noah says and rushes down the stairs, just out of my grasp.
Noah lurches out into the front yard and the night.
I hurry to catch up.
When I meet the night air, I glance around and see that darkness covers everything beyond the spillage of light from a half-dozen street lamps.
The stars cannot be seen tonight.
Noah’s head cants as the song continues, a lilting, ethereal female voice that has drawn us both out. He takes a single step and stops.
That’s when he sees the shadowy figure first. The one standing in the middle of the darkened street, head back
, mouth open, looms just outside the barrier.
Out of instinct, I reach for my fiery sword, but it’s not there. None of my weapons are there, not even my shotgun. I’m left without a means to defend my son.
Noah snaps on the penlight and shines it in the direction of the figure who’s tall and thin and hairless.
The dark figure takes a step forward, facial features visible for an instant as Noah bites back a scream.
The figure isn’t a woman at all. The sing-songy voice belongs to a dark man-creature with almost reptilian skin and eyes like black pearls. It’s a demon, a fallen angel named Moloch.
I’ve known of him for a long time. He was nothing more than a foot-soldier during the First Holy War. Intel reports have indicated, however, that he’s found a way to gain favor with the Dark Lord himself.
I don’t know what his new secret weapon is or how he’s gained such favor when he was little more than fodder before, but I’m not willing to risk my son’s life to find out. I have to find a way to fight back.
Moloch continues to sing, then stops and smiles at Noah.
Noah steps back and stumbles over his own feet.
I notice more demonic figures gliding across the dimly-lit street like sharks through water.
One of them leans forward on its haunches and utters a guttural growl.
The other demonic figures begin communicating in an ancient tongue that sounds like knives being rubbed together.
Moloch bends to one knee and brings his hands from behind his back and holds them out to Noah.
In Moloch’s hands is a hunk of raggedly severed, fleshy material that resembles the tip of a once-mighty wing. Moloch hands this to Noah, then grins and whispers something to him that is too softly-spoken for me to make out.
Despite not having a weapon I rush at the demonic figure with nothing more than my fists and feet to stomp him with.
No matter how fast I rush, though, I can’t get to him. He’s just out of reach.
Moloch wraps a scaly arm around Noah’s shoulders and begins to pull him away from me.
I’m about to scream out, but I’m pulled out of the vision right as Moloch’s eyes fall on mine.
In an instant, we’re back inside Noah’s bedroom, he’s rocketing up in his bed, his pupils dilated as he tries to fight back against the demonic figure from his nightmare.
DEATH SUITS HER_A Supernatural Reverse Harem Romance Adventure Page 4