Sentinel of Heaven (24 page)

And, sadly,
the angel was as restrained as his word.  He kept his hands strictly and
blamelessly tucked away despite an admirable cockstand, towards which he showed
no sign of shame or modesty.

But she
couldn't let that handsome naked man across from her tumble her back into bed. 
If she fell captive again to his skilled hands and lips, much less the other
delicious parts of him, she'd not get anything else done today.

A mostly
pain-free day was too wonderful a novelty to while away, even in making love.

“I think I
want to go out for lunch, some place different.  Would you like that?”

“Could we make
it later?  I am hungry now...”

She laughed.  “You'd
wait longer to eat if you're hungry?”

He freed a
hand to point over his shoulder.  “I cannot eat the way I require in front of
strangers; not and be satisfied.”  Leo ran his eyes over her body again and
sighed.  “Or do many other satisfying things.”

“Easy there,
stud.  Let me rinse off and throw on some clothes and we'll take you outside to
recharge.”

She turned
back to the spray of water and felt him step close behind her in the next
moment, spreading one wide hand on the tile wall above her.

No, he wasn't
touching her... except for the spot right above her lower back where his
erection sought her flesh.

“Hurry,
beloved,” he rumbled, bending as close as he could to her ear.  “I long to be
sated.”

He stepped out
of the tub, leaving her alone and trembling, blushing from her hairline down. 
But when she got out of the shower she saw he was dried off and had his grey
pants on.  He stood in the bathroom doorway utterly calm and composed.

“All right,
you son of a cherub,” she groused.  “Be useful and get me some clothes.”

Jeans again;
light shirt with a jacket over it.  Moira chose a smaller and more lady-like
set of black suede boots.  He gestured for her sit on the box spring again for
him to kneel and put them on her, his hands sure and affectionate – even
possessive – as he handled her feet. 
He acts the servant but I think we
both know who's in charge here...

Meanwhile Leo
kept glancing up at her as he smoothed her pants legs down; sly little looks of
lust from under his lashes that promised some glorious mayhem not too far in
the future.

Moira sighed
internally. 
Doing things with the pain-free day.  Doing things that aren't
him.  Right.

Wallet in the
back pocket, keys in the front pocket, and cane in hand, she led the way across
the yard and through the trees.  The day was cold and clear but dark clouds
gathering in the north threatened a winter storm later this afternoon.

Leo unfolded
his wings entirely when they got to the field, stretching them in the sun so
they could cast back their shine; two carved opalescent arcs.

“How long will
it take you?” Moira asked, and shivered as a sudden gust of wind sliced through
the thick fabric of her jeans.

“Not long, my
love.  Let me walk a ways and I shall return.”  He plucked the old quilt from
the air for her to sit on, then brought a soft afghan to wrap around her body
as she waited.

The angel
meandered away over the slight slope of the field again, holding his wings as
two great sails facing the sun, drinking in its light.  Mostly he looked up at
the sky with its boil of dismal clouds on the horizon.  Sometimes he bent his
silvered head to gaze down at the ground over which he trod.

Between the
earth and the air, barely a creature of either.  Moira let herself wonder for
just a moment about their long-term prospects: a fish might love a bird, but
where will they nest?  She wasn't about to pick out china patterns or wedding
dresses, no – but she knew that for her he was far more meaningful than a mere
temporary pleasure.

And what
exactly is long-term for an immortal being, anyway?  Sixty years could pass in
the blink of an eye and then he's looming over my granite tombstone, looking
much the same as he does right now.

Unchanged. 
Unchangeable.

Will he
remember?  How long would he mourn, on outliving me?  And how long until the
next mortal might catch his eye?

She laughed at
herself. 
It won't matter to you, Moira – you'll be dead!

Leo was coming
back now, his heavy features thoughtful.  “May I have back the moonstone I gave
you?  I am trying to remember something; it may go easier if my hands are busy.”

He sat down on
the free edge of the blanket, cupping his wings around Moira to keep the wind
off her more fragile human form.  Glad of their protection and warmth but
mystified by his intentions, she dug the little stone out of her wallet and
passed it to him.

He turned it
over and over in his fingertips.

“It is small,”
he muttered; gradually, with a high-pitched grinding noise that fluttered at
the upper edge of human hearing, the stone grew to several inches.

“And it is of
poor quality, save for this section here...”

The area he
indicated began to swell out, a blue-rainbow bubble of iridescence.  He snapped
the other sections off in his grip with noises like an iron bar pounding into
rock – she saw with some surprise that his right thumbnail had thickened and
sharpened into a metallic chisel edge, hard as diamond.

He held the
stone up to the sunlight to study it a moment, rotating it this way and that.

Then he
brought it back down and steadied the gem in his left hand, peeling away little
shards of it with his right.

“Facets?” she
asked.

“On the upper
side, yes,” he answered softly.  “It is called 'rose cut', when done in this
fashion.”

“What is it
with you and roses, huh?”

His eyes never
left his work, but he smiled in his sweet little way.

“Now,” he
continued.  “A setting.”  He reached into one wing, preoccupied, and pulled
back a small silver lump.  The newly-cut gem was swallowed into his palm as he
worked the metal with his fingertips.  It yielded as easily as clay.

“How do you
know so much of jewelry making?” she asked, fascinated.

“My lady of
twelve hundred questions, it is yet another hobby.  The centuries would drag by
dry and dusty without these little distractions.”

“Like me, mmm?”

“You are not a
distraction; you are a complete departure,” Leo corrected cryptically.  He
checked the fit of the stone against the setting, made a few tiny adjustments,
then pressed it into place and polished it up with a fingertip.

Back and forth
again in the sun’s rays – now an oval-shaped gemstone with a domed and faceted
front, in a cabochon setting that left the back open to allow the light
through.

“A ring,” Leo said,
and the metal at the top spun itself out in a loop at his command.

“A bail,” he commanded,
reaching into his wing again for a smaller piece of silver, which he rolled
into a long slender teardrop.  Feeding the thinner end through the ring he
closed it, smoothing away the seam.

He studied his
work for several seconds, then sharpened the fingernail of his index finger to
a diamond point and used it to etch and carve the bail.  When he moved his hand
again she could see that the pendant now hung from a little silver strip
crafted to look like one of his body feathers, like the little downy covert he
had given her.

“A chain,” Leo
said and reached into his wing a final time, pulling out a silky snake chain
and threading it through the bail.

He held out
the necklace, looking at it and then at her, apparently picturing how it would
appear around her neck.  After a moment he lowered his hands and folded them,
his expression bashful.

“It would
be... misleading of me to give this to you, without telling you something of my
kind,” he began.

“Go on,” she
said with a smile.

“You asked me
once if angels marry, as humans do... and the answer is yes, sometimes.  We may
share our pleasures more casually, without such a binding required.  To bond
together in that way suggests a deeper connection on all levels.”

He exhaled.  “We
do not wear rings.  Warriors of my kind must keep their hands unbound – we
become our own weapons.  Instead, angels who marry wear closed metal torcs
around their necks.”

“Like a
collar, almost?”

“Yes.  When
angels marry... or when an angel and a human marry,” he explained, flicking his
gaze to hers, then away, “they fashion a pair of torcs, each meant to represent
the other.  Alone together, they pin a rivet through the torc around each
other's neck, sealing them closed.  That is how the rest of the celestial host
know they have wedded.”

“Damn,” she
breathed.  “You guys take this seriously.”

“Very much
so... and as there is such a thing as marriage, there is also divorce.  To
remove the torc – to cut it off one's body – symbolizes that person's complete
and total desire to sever the bond it represents.  By the act of doing so
deliberately, the marriage is ended.”

Leo studied
her expression for what felt like an hour.

“It is my
understanding,” he continued, “ that human men and women wear rings... and
sometimes if they wish to commit adultery, they remove them in order to hide
the bond they act to betray.”

She nodded.

“Angels do not
have adultery, as such.  There is no sin or crime in sharing one's body with
someone not their spouse... as long as all parties are aware and consenting. 
The biggest sin of all is to lie – to deny the truth of your actions and
emotions to the one you claim to love.

“Thus the torc
cannot be removed, so that all involved are aware and reminded of their
connections and keep them as cherished and revered in thought and deed, carnal
or otherwise.”

“What does
that... have to do with this?” Moira asked, reaching out to touch the pendant
that dangled from his lightly closed fist.

“It is
removable; but due to the symbolism of our kind, any jewelry worn about the
neck would be considered a love-gift.  If another celestial being sees you
wearing this they would know that I have given you the work of my hands, out of
love... and know that you have accepted it.”

“Do you think
I have a problem with that?” she teased him.

“I was hoping
you would not... but I was not willing to give this to you and leave you
unknowing of what it could represent to others.”

Moira gazed up
into his eyes – which were as deep and shifting a blue as the moonstone in his
hand. 
This is serious to him,
she realized. 
It's not a torc riveted
around my throat but it's not a handful of wildflowers, either.

“It's what it
represents to
you
… Not what it might say to some hypothetical stranger
but what it will say to
you
, to see me wearing the work of your hands
around my neck.”

He stared at
her silently, gaze filled with a welter of emotions he could not voice.

“Leo, my love,”
she said, each soft word chosen with intent, “I accept your gift.”

He smiled in
relief and joy, rising up on his knees to clasp the creation behind the neck
she bent willingly to his touch, then settled the pendant in its place just
below the hollow of her throat.

“How does it
look?” she asked him, fingers exploring its unfamiliar weight.

“Perfect,” Leo
answered, his voice low and husky suddenly.  “Absolutely perfect.”  He kissed
her then, with great tenderness.  She sighed when he let her go – she'd never
had a mere kiss be so fulfilling until his...

“Is that what
you were trying to remember, the bit about marriage?” Moira asked.

Leo's face lit
with realization.  “No, my lady – it was something else.  Watch!”

He sprung up
and to his feet the next instant – he could move so quickly for his size when
he wanted.  He took the wrists of his wings in either hand and shook them
lightly.

In a heartbeat
the feathered structures lost their thickness, becoming as loose and light as
wing-shaped silk scarves.  She applauded as he wrapped their lengths around his
torso tightly, then over his shoulders and around again, tucking the tips
underneath in back to secure them.  The effect was one of him wearing a silk
bandage or some sort of wrapped shirt.

“That's
amazing!”

“Better still,
my love – this is far more comfortable than the other method of concealment as
they are still present to me, although transformed.  I could maintain them as
this for long hours or even a day or two, especially since I can still feed in
some way with them so secured.  I can even utilize them to retrieve objects, if
I am careful.  And...”

Leo spread his
hands and his clothing changed.

Instead of a
feather-print bandage and his grey sweatpants he wore... oh, she was going to
lose her damned mind.

The tips of
his tousled steel locks brushed the crisp collar of a long-sleeved button-down
black dress shirt; not cotton but fine Egyptian linen or some other buttery
soft fabric that looked like it'd be heaven to touch, unbuttoned to the center
of his chest.

It was tucked
into dark blue jeans that fit like a glove over his muscled thighs, closed with
a black leather belt that had a sleek and unobtrusive steel buckle.

And shiny
black dress shoes, my God.  Put together like this he looked like a rich
eccentric artist, or the world's tallest poet laureate.  There were too many
words for how his appearance was affecting her, and too few of them would make
sense, spoken aloud.

“Oh Leo... oh
honey,” she managed.

“I can cast an
illusion that can fool both sight and touch, since my wings are still present,”
he said proudly.

She didn't
respond, only levered herself to her feet, leaning hard on her cane.  She
walked slowly over to him with her head bowed.