by Joey W. Hill
Her scream ricocheted over the water, startling a moored flock of pelicans. It wrenched something inside David. But how many times had Jonah, Luc and other veterans told him? You're young; you still feel compassion for Dark Ones.
But she wasn't a Dark One. Dark Ones didn't have the tail or fins of a mermaid, though hers wasn't a typical tail. More like a cross between the powerful, sensitive tentacles of an octopus and the whip style of a sea serpent.
"If you bite me, you'll be sorry," he promised. Still, he cupped her face warily, using pressure to turn her toward him, to verify the remarkable thing he'd seen below the water. One half of her face was destroyed, as if the flesh had been gnawed away and never healed. The other . . . He'd never seen anything, short of the Goddess Herself, so beautiful. It was heartbreaking. Long black hair, a blue eye with dark, sooty lashes, the iris as vibrant as a jewel. She wore an earring. A pretty bauble fixed in the unscarred ear, something a young girl would wear. A little silver dolphin with a turquoise stone, likely found in the same wreck where she found the pipe that would have broken a mortal's jaw.
"You're Dark Spawn, aren't you?" They were a terrible and rare thing, something he'd never seen. For one thing, females of any species raped by Dark Ones didn't typically live. And if they survived, the children were either born as evil as their sires and angels dispatched them in the same manner they did Dark Ones, or the hapless creatures were so mutated coming out of the womb they couldn't survive.
He plucked at her hair and earned a hiss, a swipe of those sharp teeth. It was a near thing, but he sensed the energy a blink before it detonated. Throwing himself over her, he pressed down on her struggling body and snapped the counterspell. The explosion that would have flung him from her became scraps of electrified air, drifting around them like confetti. The other tentacle whipped up, struck his back with the fierce fire of a scourge. She howled as he spun out another dagger and pinned that tentacle as well. Christ, he hated this.
"Enough, witch." He snarled the Inert command, which should neutralize anything she could throw at him, and watched her brow furrow and her desperation increase as she realized he'd rendered her helpless. Her tentacles were bleeding from where his blades pierced them. She was trembling with pain, and her fear of him.
Steeling himself against that, he raised the feather. "Where did you get this, Dark Spawn? You know you can't lie to me, so don't try."
He would detect a lie, but he couldn't necessarily wrest the truth from her, unless he wanted to resort to greater torture. He'd forced Dark Ones to reveal information before, and in similar circumstances, he'd have reached down and twisted the dagger. But this wasn't normal. She wasn't . . . He didn't know what he was dealing with. Dark Ones were not young, not mermaid-looking . . . not girls.
This time he swept her hair from her in one decisive moment and looked upon her form fully, trying to school his face to impassivity and ignore how her trembling increased.
But the scarring ran so deep and wide down her left side that she didn't have a left breast. She was missing two fingers on the left hand, and the rib cage on that side was marked, like the side of her face, as if she'd been dragged over oysters. In contrast, the right breast was perfectly formed, the curve heavy enough to attract his eye. Elegant fingers, slim hand and arm, a beautiful arch of rib cage and flare of hip.
While the mermaids he'd seen had the typical tail, she had a split at the juncture of her sex like humans, only instead of legs she had those two dangerous tentacles, each one nearly six feet long and very capable--as supple and as flexible as hands. Perhaps more so.
There were tight black and blue scales over her hips, matching the one blue eye. The scales themselves had a silken gloss like sleek skin. The undersides of the tentacles were coated with feelers, which he knew explained her ability to find her way around in such a dark place as the caves she must inhabit.
"I won't tell you where he is," Mina spat. "You may destroy me if you wish, my lord. He's in good hands and seems in no hurry to leave their embrace."
David's gaze shifted back to her face. "You think you are protecting him."
"I don't know you or your intentions."
"But he is being hunted . . ."
"He is beyond where the Dark Ones can find him. For a short time at least."
David straightened, though he kept a close eye on her as he passed the back of his hand over his mouth and came back with blood on his fingers. She wasn't lying--he could tell that. Jonah was in no danger from her.
"I'm going to remove the Inert command and pull the daggers out now," he said. "If you can find it in you to trust me that far, I will heal the wounds so they will trouble you no further."
She watched him with that disconcerting dual-colored gaze. "Why would you bother?"
"Child of a Dark One." His gaze drifted down. "Daughter of a mermaid. I sense no pure evil in you. Dark Spawn are rare. Those without pure evil even rarer."
"Not as rare as you think," she said enigmatically. "Just set me free. I'll tend to myself."
"Sit still until I tell you otherwise," he said shortly. "I've proven I'm faster and stronger, and you cannot use your magic against me. Don't try my patience with another attempt."
She sat sullenly while he removed the spell and then the first dagger. He did it with quick precision, knowing it was better to do that than to make it slow. She made a quiet noise, but her jaw was clenched. When he laid his hand over the wound, the wet blood seeping between his fingers, she tensed. Damn it, he wanted to remove them both to ease her pain, but she'd bolt.
"Do you know why he doesn't want us to find him?" He asked it in a low voice as he concentrated, reaching for a sense of her physiology before he activated the healing. He didn't really expect an answer unless it was a taunt, but she was the closest link to Jonah he'd yet found. He had to try.
"No. And yes. I know the symptoms, not the cure, angel. And the answer is the cure."
The wound wasn't responding as it should. Taking up the dagger, he slit his palm for a fresh, free flow of blood and squeezed it over the wound, pleased at last when he saw the edges begin to come together, to knit.
When she cried out, writhed, his gaze snapped up. She'd laid a hand on her face. The left side showed a patch of healed skin where scarring had been just a moment before.
An angel as young as himself could heal only fresh wounds. Someone like Jonah could heal ones still festering after a month or more. Only Raphael and his legion could cure afflictions years old like this.
"No. No!" She snatched the other dagger out herself, at an angle that tore the flesh and caused another, even more desolate cry.
When she dove at him, only his quickness saved him from having the metal tip plunged into his throat, but in hindsight he wondered if she'd just wanted him out of her way. She scuttled away from him, her breath laboring, the cry still bubbling in her throat, making her sound like a rasping crow. He'd taken her up on the sand to a point where she had to drag herself down to the water. She thrust the knife away to help her increase her painstaking speed along the sand, leaving a trail of blood.
David rose and watched her. He should kill her. The darkness obviously had a tight grip on her, and for that reason Dark Spawn were usually treated no differently than Dark Ones themselves. But watching her determination to get away from him . . . for healing her, he couldn't. He didn't understand what she'd said about Jonah; he didn't understand her. But he knew he needed to understand before he acted.
He caught up with her in several strides, bent and lifted her. He held on, reestablishing the Inert command since her draping tentacles could wrap around him like a python. The ferocity of her inventive curses impressed him, though. "Sshh," he ordered. "I'm taking you back to the water. Be still. What's your name?"
Fire burned in the depths of her unsettling eyes. So did fear, and a rage strong enough to consume her, he expected. She was a strange mixture of both the nightmarish monster waiting in the closet and the child shivering in the b
ed, knowing it was only a matter of time before it emerged.
"You already know. I am Dark Spawn."
"I asked your name."
"Mina." The answer was slow in coming, but as he stopped a few feet from the water, waiting as she gazed at it longingly, it came at last.
"Good." He took another step closer. "Pretty. Mina, I've given you my blood. If you call to me at any time, anywhere, and focus on it as I'm sure you know how to do as a magic user, I will hear you. Use it if harm threatens him. Will you do that?"
"How do I know you would trust me if I said yes?"
"I likely won't. Unless you call me if he is indeed in need." He set her down at the water's edge but kept a firm hand on her arm, cupping her chin to make her look at him fully, both eyes, which seemed as difficult for her as looking directly into the sun. "If you don't, you will be very sorry."
She stared at him. "You reveal too much to one you shouldn't trust."
"Perhaps. I'm told I'm young and foolish. But it is no secret angels look after each other." He also knew the shared blood would let him locate her if he or Luc wanted to question her again. He released her from the Inert command, more reluctantly than he'd expected. Impulsively, he brushed his fingers over the meeting point of scarred and fair skin, skimming his fingers down her nose, almost in benediction. She stilled in shock, her eyes widening.
"You may do the same," he said.
As he backed up, prepared to launch, her brow furrowed. "Do what?" she asked.
"Call me if harm threatens you."
Nodding to her, he went aloft, leaving her with Jonah's feather and that astonished look on her macabre, tragic face.
Twelve
JONAH and Anna caught a ride with a migrant worker headed toward Nevada. He explained in Spanish that he could take them to the state line. While he had no room in the cab of his small pickup because of his wife and two children, he'd thrown a mattress down in the open bed of the truck and offered them that to sit upon as they traveled.
Jonah studied the man only briefly before nodding and giving Anna a hand up onto the tailgate. When he stepped up to follow, however, he misjudged and would have toppled except Anna leaned forward and caught his arm. The worker steadied him on the other side.
"Gracias," Jonah muttered, feeling anything but gracious. But Anna smiled at the man's kindness, and tried to hide her amusement as the worker made a discreet tippling gesture to his wife, suggesting he thought one of their passengers was soused.
"You're laughing at me." Jonah settled across from her, bracing his feet on the wheel well. Her feet didn't reach that far, so she had them drawn up, her knees bent, her back resting gingerly against the truck's side.
"Just at the suggestion you're drunk, my lord. Can angels drink to excess?"
"I don't think so," he said, pinching her toes. "You're being entirely too disrespectful of my exalted status."
"Does anyone ever treat you as an equal? I mean, have you always been . . . a commander?" At his look, she hurried on. Anna had no illusions about his "exalted status," though the affection and passion he showed her in such sudden, intense bursts would have made it easy to forget what she couldn't forget in other circumstances. "Mina said you're known as a Prime Legion Commander. Second only to Full Submission Angels."
He shrugged, looked around as the landscape started to move, the pickup truck grinding to life. A young boy looked out the open back window, grinned and handed them each a soda.
Anna smiled and thanked him as she turned her attention back to Jonah. "Were you born that?" She watched for shadows, knowing she could be getting into areas he didn't want to visit. But at least for right now, Jonah seemed to have left his tension on the beach. He seemed relaxed, almost amicable.
"Sometimes it feels that way," he said wryly. "But no. Angels are like other creatures. We have a time of youth and inexperience. Even those few who are made from human souls. We must apply ourselves to determine where we will be placed. Then we mentor others, bring them along, help them find their calling."
"And your calling . . . You fight Dark Ones."
"I fight the enemies Michael commands me to fight. But yes, these past few centuries, it has been mostly Dark Ones. The ancient evils, the things that humans called demons, have been contained or placated for the most part. Though ironically, at one time anything otherworldly, including angels, was called demon."
His hair was blowing around his face, whipping the sculpted cheekbones and the distracting mouth as the truck gained speed on the highway. It seemed unreal, studying him like this, a man in jeans only, the T-shirt tied to one of the hooks in the bed to dry out further. His long legs stretched across the bed, one arm along the side of the truck, the other hand balancing a Dr. Pepper on his thigh.
"When you were talking about . . ." She made a face as they accelerated to the point that the furor of the wind forced her to raise her voice. Which meant the driver and his family might hear her.
Tucking the soda between his thigh and the truck bed, Jonah grasped one of her hands just under her knee. His fingers caressed the skin beneath the skirt as he pulled her across and tumbled her into his now mostly dry lap with one easy move. It allowed her to be balanced and upright without the uncomfortable pressure on her back the metal lip of the truck bed caused. He snugged her hips down between his thighs, legs draped over his calves.
"What?" he said, his lips close to her ear.
"Do you touch each other this easily?" she asked first. His dark eyes were warm, the warmth of darkest chocolate. Anna often touched the animals of the sea and the land, the flowers and trees. She needed to touch life, connect with it. But she touched her own kind so rarely, mermaid or human, and had never been invited to do so. She would have welcomed it from the homeliest, shyest example of either race, but this . . . Jonah not only welcomed her touch; he was willing to touch her. He almost seemed to demand it. And he was a far cry from shy or homely.
"Not like this." That glint of humor again. She liked it, wondered if it was a glimpse of the younger, more carefree angel he might have once been. "There are angels who enjoy men more than women, but I am not one of them." His brows drew down. "Now, what were you really going to ask?"
She wondered that she was bold enough to ask, but she was curious. And maybe, since he was male, it would help keep his mind away from less pleasant things.
"It was just, the other night, the way you described how you all sought pleasure for grounding. Is there a place you go? Or does each seek his own . . . source?"
She got distracted by the sensual set of his lips, particularly when he brushed hers with them, parted them, teased her with a fleeting touch of his tongue. "What are you looking for, Anna?"
"Are there--I don't know--brothels for angels? Houses of pleasure? I mean, if you need this so often . . ."
He chuckled then, and the sound shot warmth straight down to her core, which pooled into heat as his voice lowered to a husky murmur. "Am I too demanding, little one? Would you prefer me to spread my attentions out?"
"No," she said instantly, then flushed to the roots at her unsophisticated vehemence. "I mean, that's not for me to say. If I don't, if you need more--"
"It's curiosity," he realized, studying her. "What I said the other night made you curious, didn't it?" Gathering her hair in one hand, he tucked it into a twisted bun to keep it out of her face, but he left his hand at her nape. It restrained her in proximity to his mouth, allowing him those occasional maddening tastes at unexpected moments to keep her befuddled. "Tell me what you've imagined. It's going to be a long drive." He shifted, let her feel the pressure of him against her hip. "See if you can torture me with nothing more than your mind."
"It's not that. I just imagined . . ."
"Tell me, Anna."
She shook her head, smiled. "I tend to be fanciful."
"That's all right. Tell it like a story."
"Okay." She raised her attention to his forehead, finding his direct gaze a little disconcert
ing. "I'm imagining all of you in a secluded lagoon . . . with water nymphs. The trees are hanging low over the water; the banks, lush and green. Like one of those Romantic period paintings. In fact, I think it's likely some of those paintings came from an artist stumbling upon you." She stole a quick glance at him, then continued. "You made him think he was seeing men, not angels, so that's what he painted. Six or seven of you, entwined in the nymphs' arms and legs. You took the nymphs on the banks; their legs wrapped around you like slim white flower petals." She moistened her lips, encouraged by the growing heat in his gaze, the reflected heat in her own body. "Later, you went back into the water together. The nymph's hair was spilling down the front of your body, her back against your front . . . as you would take me in my mermaid form. As you entered the nymph's body, your hands clasped hers and they skimmed the top of the water in front of you both."
Just touching. The marvel of it to her being all the contact. Flesh, bone, muscle within one's grasp, living. The nymph's body pressed so generously against the angel's, so he could hear her heartbeat and she could hear his . . .
Jonah's hand, still tangled in her hair, loosened enough that he eased her head down beneath his jaw, her ear against his chest. Thump, thump, thump. Strong and steady, even over the rush of wind and roar of engine.
"Like that," she whispered. She closed her eyes as his arm tightened high around her shoulders to enclose her completely without hurting her. "Do angels always make everyone feel so safe?"
His lips pressed against her forehead. "When my wings are healed, I'll enclose you in them when you sleep. There's nowhere safer I could put you."
Smiling, she lifted her body to look at him. Reaching up, she gathered his windblown hair, pulling it from his face as he'd done for her. She tied it back with the wire bracelet she'd worn today, keeping the strands from flailing against his strong features. "So is it like that? As I described it?"
"Sometimes. When we desire Joining pleasure for grounding, we often go alone. However, I don't deny there have been times we've gone in groups to places we are welcomed. Once, when I was much younger"--he slanted her a smile that was astonishingly almost a grin--"a nunnery."