Sentinel of Heaven (38 page)

But the last
of her strength had fled with Gabriel's soul, or so it felt.  She lay in the
filth and the ashes of lost angels and cried.

Some force
from the outside was beginning to scrape at the leaden walls, generating
tortured metallic shrieks.  It peeled back one corner of the box with an
unimaginable strength, then shredded the mesh of the Faraday cage to create a
hole no larger than the size of her spread hand.

Curiosity took
over where mere survival urge could not; she wiped her eyes and pulled her ruined
blouse over her chest.

The box
suddenly filled with a golden light, brighter than the noonday sun.

“Be not
afraid,” a sardonic voice said, full and rich as the tone of organ pipes.

She sniffed,
indignant despite her turmoil.

“I'm not. 
I've seen worse.”

“Surprisingly
enough, I believe you.”  The glowing celestial walked to her across the filthy
floor, his feet never truly touching it, to bend and lift Moira into his arms. 

“We go, little
sister – your task here is finished.”

Instantly the
ghastly mausoleum around her was dissolving, fading away to be replaced by a
high-up clearing large enough to have some grass, close to the valley and the
fighting.

The angel set
her down onto the unspoiled turf and they studied each other a moment.  His
forehead and cheekbones under the golden glow were high and strong; his eyes
were the green-blue of the open sea at dawn and his hair was a rebellious fall
of blond curls to the top of his broad shoulders.

“Gabriel,” she
breathed.

“You have the
advantage of me, little sister, in more ways than one.”  He narrowed his eyes
thoughtfully; she realized with a start that he was completely nude.  What
is
it with angels and no clothing?

“Who are
you
,
to wield the Spear of Heaven?” he was asking.

“I don't know...
Leo just gave it to me.”

“I don't mean
that,” Gabriel specified, dismissing the Blade in her hand.  “I mean
him
.”

He turned her
toward the distant speck of deadly silver fire, now pulling impossibly tight
loops over the battlefield below, attended by several other bright motes that
parceled out death from above alongside him.  Gabriel's wing folded
protectively around her in case of stray bullets; she pushed it back gently,
just far enough to keep her view.

“Look at
him... he is magnificent.  I have never seen him destroy with such abandon
before – and yet such incredible restraint!  See how he continues to defend the
metal crate even at expense of his own wounding, but why?”

Gabriel's eyes
on her again, on her face before they drifted down to the necklace on her
breast that flashed its blue gleam.  His gaze turned knowing; his eyebrow
raised a fraction.

Then he cupped
his hands around his mouth and shouted up into the sky in that language Leo had
spoken, words that sounded as fierce and joyous as a hawk's cry.  The
surrounding mountains echoed the message back.  The steely blaze that was her
mate answered with a victorious roar, pumping its sword-arm high in
acknowledgement.

“'The
green-eyed sister of mercy is safe beneath my wing',” he translated his words
for her.  “He knows my voice; he knows I will keep you alive.”

“But how?”

Gabriel smiled
down at her; his height was not that of Leo's but he was still far taller than
most men she'd met.  “He knows my voice because we were nest-mates, fledglings together.” 
The golden angel reached out and brushed her pendant with speculative
fingertips.  “He knows I will keep you alive out of the great love I bear him,
and because he will rip me apart with his bare hands if I do not.”

The airborne
sparks of light drew together in a ring high above the crate, their extended
hands and sword-blades beginning to pulse with a blinding light.  At some
unheard signal each one fired a beam of radiant force, pouring it into the trap
– which turned a bright cherry red and then burst apart, molten and cleansed
and completely empty.

There rose a
great moan from the survivors on the field; petty generals cried orders from
the north and west in a dozen disparate languages.  Moira could see Leo gesture
imperiously and his warriors moved to obey:  follow the voices, bring down the
heads of the hydra and then destroy the thrashing body at will.

Gabriel
meanwhile took her shirt in his hands and with a magic different than Leo's
cleaned away the filth.  His power seemed to be purifying the cloth, not simply
reverting it to an earlier state of cleanliness; he didn't appear able to
repair the torn sleeve the way Leo could have.  “Restore yourself, my lady, as
best you can...”

She shrugged
into the wreckage of the blouse as he knelt to clean her pants and boots with
the same caress.  He took her face briefly in his hands when he rose and wiped
away the traces of her tears, stroking her hair to clean and arrange it.

“Why take such
care with my appearance?” she asked him, mildly disconcerted by his attentions.

“Trust me,
little sister, for the battle is nearly over; you'll see the reason and thank
me when the Lord Commander beholds you again.”

Moira shifted
her weight and winced.

“You have
wounds – old wounds,” Gabriel realized, looking her over briefly.  “Lean on me,
if you wish it.”

She slid her
hand into the offered crook of his arm.  “Really, there's no need for all
this.  I'm fine.”

“I owe you my
life and my freedom... you came into my Hell and gave me water, and covered my
shame,” he said softly.  “Yours were the first gentle hands in four hundred
years.  For you no task could be too small and no request too large, for as
long as I may serve you.  May I... know my lady's name?”

“It's Moira.”

“Moira...” He
tasted the word.  “Depending on the language, it means either 'destiny' or
'bitter'.”  His aqua gaze was too direct, too frank.  “Are you a bitter
destiny, my lady?”

She looked
away, blushing in confusion.

On the field
the angels had descended, walking almost casually between the trenches in the
setting sunlight, pausing here and there to deliver a swift coup de grâce to
the wounded they found.  Dreadful work but done cleanly – the fewer survivors
to carry tales, the better.

“I think
victory is complete,” Gabriel said remotely.  “Are you ready to return to the
plain?”

He stepped
closer to her at her nod, wrapping her up in arms that were like and unlike
Leo's; the mountainside faded away to be replaced by the ravaged valley itself.

Moira scanned
the field desperately – and saw Leo's massive battle-form standing fifty yards
away across a lawn of shattered bodies and discarded weapons and gore.  The
Blade she kept low at her side but her free hand curled in a fist over her breast
as her soul sang his name.

The fearsome
head turned as if summoned aloud, fixing his sky-blue eyes on her.  He allowed
himself to shrink, to reverse the changes and become once more the figure she
loved.  The angel was covered in blood, some of it his own from various bullet
wounds, one or two of which looked serious – and the pants he'd worn had not
survived the fight as anything more than rags, hanging off his frame in
tatters.

But as he
began to walk towards her his face was lit with a quiet love and joy; for all
he cared he strolled unharmed down a primrose path on the sweetest spring day,
because she was his destination.

Moira's heart
hammered in her chest; her gaze was for him alone.  She didn't feel Gabriel's
palms come to rest lightly on her shoulders.  “Brother,” he said when Leo
stopped just within her reach, “I return your lost treasure – here she is, from
my hands to yours.”

“A princely
gift indeed,” Leo replied, his eyes never leaving her face.  “My thanks,
Gabriel.”

“Do you wish
me to attend your wounds, Lord Commander?” he pressed, glancing from one to the
other.

“No, I shall
revert them shortly.  Go and assist the others.”

“My lord,”
Gabriel acknowledged, voice soft, sketching a half-bow as he left them to their
reverie.

Leo sank to
his knees before her.  “My lady,” he murmured, “my men and I have broken the
back of Molon Labe; their commanders are dead and the infantry are either
killed or fled.  They will not rise again.  We owe this victory to your
efforts.  Furthermore you have freed eight angels from centuries of torment,
seven of which were able to return in valor to the fight.  What would you
command of me now?  May I gather up the winds for your delight, or swim against
the maelstrom if it is your desire?”

“Heal
yourself, you big stupid cherub!” she hissed.

“I am wounded?”
her lover answered deliriously.  “In my lady's presence, I feel it not.”

“Leo!”

“I jest, my
love.  Pardon me a moment.”  He lay his palms over the worst one first – a hole
through-and-through the right side of his abdomen to his back which she was
convinced made a whistling noise – and doubled up in sudden agony, giving vent
to a grating cry.

When he drew
his hands away the flesh was whole.  He panted a bit and shook himself out,
then laughed unexpectedly, popping his neck and shoulders before moving to the
wound on his left thigh.

“I will
never...
ever
... call you a tourist,”  Moira promised.  He clenched
his jaw and kept the next bellow behind his lips.  “Why didn't you let him help
you?” 

“Because I
never could get used to the feel of his hands inside me,” and before she could
beg an explanation he touched his right bicep and groaned; Moira saw the flesh
pop back into place.

“Is that all
of them?”

“I believe so. 
The little lead bullets could not pierce but the larger slugs were depleted
uranium and unexpectedly effective.”

He ran his
hands over his frame.  “No, wait – I find there is another wound,” he gasped, “but
only you may heal it...”

He pulled her
against him suddenly, spending a moment enjoying the press of her body to his;
she knotted her hand in his matted hair and kissed him firmly and deeply.

“Ahhh, see how
you restore me,” he whispered when they drew apart somewhat.

A respectful
cough from outside the circle of his arms caught both their attentions at
last.  A slender young angel with long black hair – the altar-boy, Moira
realized – said “Lord Commander?” and pointed beyond them.

Gabriel was
kneeling over the body of one of the fallen enemy; a portly older man whose
guts gaped open.  He had the soldier's face held between his palms and was
talking down into it rapidly.  The dying human's expression was filled with awe
and terror.

Gabriel
smiled, almost sweetly.

With a swift
motion he broke the man's neck – and pulled.  The skin and muscle tore raggedly
and gouted blood from the still-beating heart.  Gabriel lifted the severed
head, whispering again to the blinking eyes, the trembling lips.

He kissed
those same lips briefly and rose to his feet, hooking his fingers into the
twitching mouth to carry the trophy along with him as he returned to Moira and
Leo.

“No souvenirs,”
they said in unison.

Gabriel paused
gracefully in mid-step, lifting his brows.  He looked down at his hand as if he
didn't quite remember what he had picked up.  He studied the numb features for
a moment, then turned and cast it carelessly back towards the body that had
owned it, wiping his hands clean.

Moira turned
her head to catch Leo's eye –
that'll be trouble,
she thought in a
thin tight band directed at him alone.

Leo nodded,
and the emotion he transmitted back was almost as clear as the words: we'll
deal with it soon.

“Call the
others, Gabriel,” he said aloud, rising to his feet.  The golden angel made no
noise but in the next heartbeat Leo and Moira were surrounded by the freed
warriors.

“The sun
flees.  We go to join it and talk somewhat further; follow me,” he ordered
shortly.  He pulled her close to him again and the world ran away, leaving them
alone for an instant in phase-space that dissolved back into the far-away beach
and its great flat rock.

“My love, my
lady,” he was murmuring against her ear in the fresh morning light.  “You are
whole and sound, thank Provenance.”

“You nearly
died... I nearly died...”  He came down to her level again; she flinched against
him and then moved more deliberately, mouth falling open in a rush of lust.

“An expected
reaction, after battle,” Leo responded; his voice roughened and he said
something in Operandis.  Moira didn't understand the words but the tone was
enough to send her pulse racing.

“'Were my brothers
not a mere step behind',” the sardonic voice translated past Leo's broad
shoulder, “'I would ravish you up against the nearest tree.'“

Moira glared
around Leo's arm at Gabriel, who looked from her to him and back again.  “'Twice',”
he concluded.

Leo sighed and
visibly gathered up his self-control before he stood and turned to the loose
gathering of warriors.  Moira ground her teeth briefly, then moved over to the
rock to sit down. 
Just my luck; a good old survival imperative hits and
I'm surrounded by eight naked guys and expected to do nothing.  At least he was
able to manage my pain again; thank Provenance for small favors, I suppose.

“We need to
speak of plans,” Leo told the others.   They dimmed their glows; were it not
for the wings they would look mostly like normal men.  Not a one of them was
under six feet tall, however, although Leo still stood inches higher than the
next tallest.

One warrior with
a helmet of rust-red short-cropped curls responded to him in Operandis;
respectful but challenging.

“While you are
in the presence of the 'green-eyed sister of mercy' who freed you, you will
speak in modern English only,” her mate instructed calmly.

“Lord
Commander, I see no reason why any mortal should be privy to our discussions,
even if she is your doxy,” Red-Hair answered.  He was among the shortest of the
angels but almost as broad across the shoulders as Leo.  Moira recognized him
as one of the emasculated ones, the one who had signed “do it!” with his chin.

“Do all your
men sicken so quickly, milord Commander?” she interjected in a sweet but firm
voice.

Leo looked
back at her, his expression wary – but the devil was out in her and would have
its due.  “Why do you ask such, warrior?”

“That one,”
she said, indicating him with the point of the Blade she'd almost forgotten she
was holding.  “He has only just returned from the High Provenance and not an
hour later he pleads for me to return him to it.”

Red-Hair stared
at her for a long moment, then threw his head back in a cheerful laugh.  “Little
sister, I crave your pardon,” he snickered, walking towards where she sat on
the rock.  She raised the Blade and eyed him suspiciously but he didn't seem to
notice.  There was actual good-humor in his expression when he made a half-bow
before her.  “Clasp hands with me, let us be known to each other truly.”