Phoenix Contract: Part Three (Fallen Angel Watchers)

by Melissa Thomas

  Aiden hesitated, unable to refrain from a final look at the building. The eerie certainty that they were being watched had been contagious, and Aiden uneasily searched windows and the rooftop for the outline of a person.

  Once benign but now effusing malevolence, the Archeology building loomed like a red brick giant, wrapped in a cloak of late-afternoon shadows. She saw no sign of a suspicious lurker or watcher, but the feeling was undeniable and real. Aiden shuddered and hurried after Katsue.

  “Relax and clear your mind,” Matthew said in a calm voice.

  “My mind is clear.” Aiden sat cross-legged on a yoga mat on the floor of the library’s study. The redhead shifted her weight, turned her head to the side to stretch her neck, scrunched her nose, suppressed the urge to itch at her shoulder blade, and exhaled loudly. Her body remained tense and her mind busy.

  “Focus is essential to achieving a meditative state. We could attempt a meditation in motion if you are unable to sit still.” Matthew sat upright in an armchair opposite her. Over the last couple days, the priest’s disposition had taken a definite turn for the better.

  “This isn’t working,” Aiden said, opening her eyes. “I can’t force a vision. The nightmares happen when they happen.” She uncrossed her legs and stretched. Her toes popped audibly.

  Matthew sighed. “My desire is to help you understand your nightmares better. Understanding will reduce the power they hold over you.”

  Restlessly, Aiden shot to her feet. “I know, and I do appreciate that.”

  “Perhaps we can try again tomorrow.”

  She took a step and staggered as a haze of red blinded her vision.

  Aiden halted, and the scarlet fog cleared, revealing a world in twilight–velvet grays and sumptuous blues dappled with violet highlights. Coarse, dry dirt crunched beneath her shoes. Gone was the familiar archeology building and Father Matthew whom she knew so well.

  Aiden stood in the center of a coliseum. Massive walls made of granite blocks rose up on all sides, forming a series of successive tiers, connected with a network of staircases. The stands were packed with spectators. A terrible din rose from the audience: cries and wails, pleas and screams. No single voice could be heard for the countless others. And the people—the people, they writhed, bodies contorted into unnatural shapes, faces distorted with horror and hurt, and with no division at all between their bodies. They formed a single endless suffering mass.

  In front of the tormented throng, Thrash stood tall, the only person Aiden could distinguish from the mass. His gaze focused upon her, watched her with an unwavering stare. In his eyes, she saw the abyss. Nothing human remained—no humor, no warmth, no soul.

  Aiden’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. The thud thud thud grew in volume until it drowned out even the roar of the crowd, until she heard nothing else. Placing her hand against her chest, she felt her heart beating hard, but there was no way it was the source of the thuds. Aiden looked around and then down, and finally she found the origin.

  On the ground lay a beating heart. It was the size of four men’s fists and a dark purple hue. The blood vessels, which should have connected the organ to a network of veins and arteries, were severed with clean, precise cuts. The heart pulsated with inexhaustible energy, surging steadily with the passage of blood pumping through severed arteries to the ground where it spilled into the dirt and formed a dark pool. Each contraction brought it closer to Aiden.

  A hand grabbed Aiden’s ankle, and she bit back a scream. She staggered and nearly lost her balance. At her feet, Matthew lay prone with his face turned into the dirt. His skin was stretched taut so the bones of the skeleton were clearly visible without muscle tone to soften the lines. Convulsions wracked his wiry frame, and his dark skin had acquired a sickly pallor. His fingers dug into her ankle so hard the ragged nails broke skin and raised welts.

  “Hungry.” The word, barely decipherable, was grunted. Slowly, the ghoulish figure at her feet rolled his head toward her. His features were distorted almost beyond recognition. The whites of his eyes were yellow. It was Matthew, but not, rather some awful dead thing wearing his skin. Sickened, Aiden attempted to step back, yanking her leg.

  “Hungryhungryhungry. Musteat, musteat!” The phrase was rasped in a litany of suffering, and the final words sounded like ‘meat’. Blood bubbled past his lips which parted in an inhuman snarl and revealed yellowed teeth. His thick and forked tongue slithered past his lips.

  Panic suffused Aiden and made her heart race. Her hands flailed as she sought action but remained undecided on a course. Matthew’s grip on her ankle tightened, and without warning, he bit the side of her leg and ripped out a hunk of flesh.

  Aiden cried out at the unexpected pain and lost her balance, falling to her hands and knees in the dirt. Mere inches from her face, the naked heart surged closer. The terrible din of the thumping heart, the howling crowd, and guttural growls was deafening. Her blood screamed, and her head hurt. Aiden covered her ears with her hands to reduce the assault.

  A hand seized her forearm and yanked her to her feet. It was Death, black-robed and scythe-wielding, pulling her to safety. The Grim Reaper shoved Aiden aside and harvested Matthew’s head with a single clean sweep of his weapon. With chosen steps, Death circumvented the beating heart.

  “Aiden,” Death whispered her name in a lover’s voice, a dulcet brogue, husky and hypnotic. He sounded genuinely confused. He balanced upon the balls of his heels, legs evenly spaced, allowing the scythe to spin in his hand. An aura of brightness cast him into silhouette so she could not make out his features, but he seemed familiar.

  “Magnus?” she whispered. Abruptly, she remembered that she was dreaming. Breathing heavily, she pressed a hand to her throat and tried to calm herself.

  “Why am I here?” Magnus asked in that dulcet brogue, sounding distinctly confused. His face remained obscured within the cowl of the robe, but the bright white aura dimmed.

  Aiden ignored his question. “You murdered Matthew.”

  “That wasn’t Matthew. It was a monster.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How can you be so damn cold? You’re the monster.”

  “Yes, but I’m your monster.” His voice grinned. His hand, white bones visible through cracks in the blackened skin, slid downward along the shaft of the scythe.

  Aiden stiffened. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Without a word, Magnus extended his arm. Aiden’s stomach heaved with nausea. His skin was blackened and oozing. From his hand to his wrist, a fine network of tiny white bones could be glimpsed beneath the burnt meat. The sleeve of the robe concealed further carnage.

  “Did you mean physically?” he asked. “Because the rest would take a long time to explain.”

  “What do you mean? Why are you talking in crazy riddles again?” Aiden swallowed bile. Even though she’d seen his injuries before, the extent of the burns still shocked her. She hurt with him and for him. She wanted to cry for the masculine beauty so totally ruined. “Is the rest of you like that?”

  “More or less. I managed to protect my eyes.”

  Magnus sounded disinterested as if they were discussing the weather. She could only think of one reason anyone could be so distant.

  “Are you dead? Are you dying?”

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  Her temper went from zero to one hundred. “Magnus.” Aiden’s tone grew threatening. She reached for him, intending to wring his throat with her bare hands.

  His silky laugh caressed her skin. Deftly, he pushed back the cowl of the cloak and revealed his too perfect face and silken sable hair. His hands were once again whole, fingers long and strong and tawny. Aiden shivered with pure feminine appreciation.

  “How did you do that?” Aiden asked involuntarily, amazed at his chameleon-like transformation. She exercised only the most minimal control over her own dreams which completely exceeded her realm of experience. When he opened his mouth, she leveled a finger at him. “So help me, if you quote another SciFi movie...
”

  He laughed.

  The mercurial sound sent shivers down her spine. “That’s not funny.”

  His smile widened. “I have to go.”

  “What? No, don’t go.”

  He faded before her eyes.

  Panicked, she stepped forward and grabbed for his arm, but her hands passed through his body. She lost her balance and stumbled. Gasping, Aiden halted. It took several dizzying seconds to recover her orientation.

  “Aiden?” Matthew said, sounding worried. He remained seated. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, just gimme a second,” Aiden said, pressing a hand to her temple.

  “Did you have a vision?” Matthew asked.

  “Just call me prophecy girl.” Aiden found the timing of her vision way too convenient and yet remained firmly convinced none of her efforts had actually contributed to the revelation.

  “What did you see?”

  “It was Magnus.”

  “I suppose that should surprise me,” Matthew said with a frown. Then he smiled. “But it doesn’t.”

  She fell into grim silence, unsure of how much she could tell Matthew of the vision. The awful images fed the worst of her paranoia. She wasn’t sure who she could or should trust anymore.

  The priest stared long and hard at her face and then nodded. “Ah, I see.”

  Aiden gulped air. “Do you trust Magnus?”

  “Of course.”

  “Completely, without question? Even if I told you that I saw Magnus kill you in my vision?”

  A thoughtful look crossed Matthew’s countenance, an expression far too composed and sober for a man being told his best friend would kill him. “I’d say it was unfortunate your vision has engendered your distrust of him.”

  “You don’t doubt him at all?”

  Matthew shook his head, a quick and reflexive reaction more telling than a verbal denial. “Magnus and I have history. The telling would take more time than I have left on this earth, but let me put it to you this way. There are two things left in this world I trust. God’s grace and our friendship. Magnus isn’t perfect by a long shot. He’s arrogant, distant, often cold, but always loyal. He makes mistakes. But if you keep faith with him, he’ll come through every time.”

  There was no arguing with him. He seemed committed to his belief in Magnus. Aiden only wished she shared her mentor’s faith in the Celt. As awful as it made her feel, she wasn’t even sure she fully trusted Matthew anymore. His lies had undermined her innocence, his deception struck close to her heart.

  “Ah, if—” Matthew attempted to push up out of the armchair. A deep, ragged cough issued from his chest, and he collapsed to the seat too weak to move. "Damnation. I hate this. My body has betrayed me. I'm useless."

  Aiden caught his shoulder and provided support until he finished struggling. “Father, no,” she scolded. “You should rest. We can discuss this later.”

  “Yes, rest sounds right,” he answered in a faint voice. “We will talk later.”

  In testament to his weakness, the feisty priest offered no resistance when Aiden helped him to his quarters. She lowered him to the bed and pulled a blanket over him. Pressing a kiss to his sunken cheek, she fled and sought a solitary place to think.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next evening, an unexpected summer storm drew Father Matthew out of his study and up onto the roof. The priest stood with his arms spread and face turned to the heavens, mouth open to catch the warm, gentle droplets as they fell from the sky. Silly and child-like, but at his age Matthew didn’t care. Every moment of life was precious, and he wanted to savor it, because he had so little time left.

  The tempo of the downpour increased slightly, and the raindrops pelted his face and hands. Matthew sighed, reluctantly thinking about going indoors. He knew if Aiden or Mrs. Leromenos caught him out in the rain without a coat, he’d never hear the end of it.

  “Are you trying to catch your death?”

  The impatient demand stopped Matthew in his tracks. He turned to face the Celtic warrior. “Don’t nag, Magnus. You sound like a woman.”

  Magnus lifted his shoulders in a classic Gaelic shrug. The Celt wasn’t one to advise to fools. The rain pelted down even harder, and the two men stared at one another in stubborn silence, each certain they were right.

  “It’s a fine day for young ducks,” Magnus finally observed.

  “Well, you’re right about one thing,” Matthew agreed with a wry grin. The priest shivered, because the rain had chilled, and suddenly he felt like a fool. Abruptly, he wanted to return to the sanctuary of his warm office and dry out in front of a fire.

  However, thanks to his big mouth, Matthew couldn’t go inside without losing face. Magnus, at least, had on a heavy cloak made of waterproofed leather, as though he’d dressed expecting rain, and indeed, he probably had.

  “I’m right about more than that,” Magnus replied cryptically and turned toward the stairs. “I’m going inside. There’s no fool like an old fool,” he threw over his shoulder as a parting shot.

  Matthew trailed on his heels, seizing on the excuse to get in out of the rain. “Well then, I feel dwarfed beside you, old man,” Matthew shot.

  The Celt grumbled a response, but it was lost beneath the pounding of their feet in the concrete stairwell.

  “So, is this a social call?” Matthew suspected the visit wasn't casual before he even asked the question. The priest retrieved a wool sweater from the closet and hurried to stand by the fire.

  Magnus lingered near a bookcase, absently stroking one gloved finger over a leather binding. “I wanted to see how you’re doing,” Magnus replied. He stopped fiddling with the book but remained standing in his corner, present but apart. The Celt’s fidgeting and distance pointed to a restless mood.

  “I’m doing better than I was, but then I suppose you’d know that, considering,” Matthew said. He opened the antique pipe cabinet on the mantel and removed a Teddy Bent Billiard, a masterfully crafted smoking piece.

  “Considering?” Magnus asked sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The priest filled the bowl with tobacco and fit the pipe’s bit between his lips. He lit it and inhaled deeply and with great pleasure, then he slid into the leather armchair by the fireplace.

  “Come now, old man, you brought me back from the dead. You know what that means,” Matthew said with vinegar sarcasm. It wasn’t the first time they’d gone rounds over what exactly Magnus had done to him, but Matthew had yet to receive a solid explanation.

  “I jump started your heart,” Magnus replied, sounding stiff and guarded. “It’s the same as if Aiden or one of the med techs had performed CPR.”

  “No, not precisely the same,” Matthew drawled, puffing contentedly on his pipe. “You used magic or—”

  “Infused you with power,” the Celt corrected.

  “Your own essence? I honestly had no idea you could do such a thing. Is that how I'm still alive?”

  Magnus only shrugged.

  Matthew sighed. “I'll take that as a yes.”

  “Yes,” Magnus bit off.

  “So, technically, I suppose that I’m already dead,” Matthew said, aghast at the discovery. He considered it no surprise that the Celt hadn't wanted him to know. “Is that why you’re always hovering about? Waiting for the power to give out so you can do your job?”

  Magnus’ entire body stiffened, and the material of the leather cloak cracked as he whipped around. “You know better than that!”

  “Of course I do,” Matthew replied mildly. “But it doesn’t negate the fact that you’ve been hanging around an awful lot lately.”

  “You’re going to die,” Magnus said, equally uneasy and angry. The frustration of being powerless over death roiled through the Celt like a storm.

  “Ah, yes, I am,” Matthew agreed. He possessed a degree of serenity that Magnus would never comprehend or attain. One had to be human to understand mortality.

  “Doesn’t that make you angry?” Magnus de
manded.

  “I have... regrets,” Matthew admitted softly. “I’ve lived my life, but there are things I would do over.”

  “I can make you immortal.”

  The offer knocked him off balance. Matthew looked wide-eyed at the Celt who met his gaze with unwavering defiance. The Celt had made the same offer once nearly thirty years before when Matthew had been gravely injured and on the verge of death.

  Matthew shook his head. “Becoming undead is not—”

  “It doesn’t have to be like that,” Magnus interrupted. “I’m not undead, and I’ve already given you some of my power, enough to keep you alive for a while, but I can give you more.”

  “What would that cost you?” Matthew demanded. He sat up stiff and straight in his chair, his forgotten pipe gripped in his hand.

  “I’m not sure.” The Celt shifted, and the priest immediately sensed the lie.

  “What? Your health? You’re still recovering from being burnt to a crisp!” Matthew slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair, furious with Magnus for even introducing the possibility. The temptation.

  “I’m sorry.” At some point during their conversation, Magnus had moved closer and now stood three feet away. He fell silent, effectively hidden within the leather cloak so Matthew could only guess at the Celt’s mood.

  “You’re sorry for yourself, not me,” Matthew said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. His hard won tranquility was gone. He resented Magnus for the casual destruction. Inner peace wasn’t easy to come by.

  “Yes, I am. I’m sorry for myself and not you, because I’m losing my only friend, and I’ll be living with the loss long after you’re dead and buried,” Magnus agreed. Rich with sorrow, rife with irony, impassioned with pain, the Celt’s amazing voice conveyed more emotion than music. He used that voice as a weapon and as a tool. It contained laughter and loss and invoked forty years of memories—images of their friendship through the decades.

  Magnus’ face was hidden within the cowl of his cloak, but the priest could sense rather than see the tears falling over that blackened, ruined face, and he imagined how they must sting.