In another thousand years or so, Kingsley will be dead and gone, as tragic as that sounds. Same with my daughters, family, and friends. Anthony should still be here, thank god. In what capacity, I haven’t a clue. Fang and Ishmael will be around, too. Of course, I can always date another werewolf a thousand years from now. Or a vampire. Or even Fang. Dating another vamp makes sense. We can share victims and run around graveyards together. A blood vampire and an energy vampire. What a team we’d make.

  Or, I can consider a celestial being who gave up his lot in life for a chance for us to be together.

  No, the timing isn’t right, and maybe it never will be. But it would be nice to get to know Ishmael, even if to rule him out.

  Considering he’s likely the only being I know who would be willing to travel to the Underworld with me, what better way to get to know the guy, right? At least see what he is made of. For all I know, he might never open up and would cower under duress. I didn’t know anything about him. Plus, I don’t know what’s become of him. Did Ant say something about dark magic?

  Uh-oh.

  Anyway, I’m about to get a lot of answers to my questions. After all, swooping under the arching streetlights and crisscrossing telephone wires is a white-winged being heading straight toward me...

  Chapter Fifteen

  He circles overhead, his white wings reflecting the ambient light. A good thing it’s late at night. Seeing how easy it is to spot him makes me appreciate my own dark wings.

  I watch him circling and find myself grinning. After all, he is shirtless and nearly pants-less. The cream-colored pantaloons barely go past his knees and seem to be gathered around his waist by a thick rope. It begs the question: just where do fallen angels shop for clothing?

  As he circles, he descends a few dozen feet at a time. The backdraft of his wings washes over me. His longish, wavy hair billows behind him. I turn in place, following him. Now just a few feet above me, he reaches down a hand for me. As he does so, I reach up automatically, without thinking. Like a grappling hook, he takes my hand and lifts me off my feet.

  Hanging awkwardly, I reach up with my other hand, which he immediately takes hold of, stabilizing me. His wings beat powerfully above me as we lift higher and higher into the cool night air.

  Okay, this is a new experience. For once, someone else is doing the flying. His wings are bigger than mine. Then again, he’s a lot bigger than me. How big he is compared to what he had been is impossible to tell, especially from my present perspective. The hands that hold my wrists are massive, the forearms twisted with muscle, leading up to shoulders as wide or wider than Kingsley’s.

  Okay, wow. Don’t look at his shoulders. Or the striated eight-pack that is his stomach. Then again, what am I supposed to look at? I’m literally flying backward and looking up at him.

  So much for my jog.

  I note we’re flying east and slightly south. Below is the 57 Freeway. We briefly follow it, then follow the 91 Freeway. It’s interesting to note that angels use the freeway system for guidance.

  “Are you kidnapping me?” I ask him, knowing I can teleport safely away, should I want to. At present, I don’t want to.

  He looks down at me and smiles which, for some reason, causes his pectorals to ripple, as if they’re somehow connected to the twitch muscles of his lips. Or maybe he’s just flexing.

  “Do we have far to go?” I ask.

  He looks down at me again, cocks his head slightly, as if puzzling out what ‘far’ would mean to me. Finally, he offers me a crooked grin and a small shake of his head. Okay, so not far from here.

  It’s cold up here, but it doesn’t bother me. If things get too cold, I can get uncomfortable, more so now than back when I was a blood vamp, when cold didn’t bother me. For now, the hoodie in my sweatshirt flaps against my neck as my baggy sweats shudder violently against my thighs and ankles. We’re about 500 feet above the ground. Lights sparkle in all directions. It’s nice seeing it from the perspective of a passenger.

  Truth is, Ishmael is much more interesting to look at.

  Though he looks slightly monochromatic in my night vision, he glows with his own inner light, much like my son. Kingsley probably wouldn’t like the fact that I’m so closely studying the angel above me. I would like to point out that there’s observing and there’s lusting. I wasn’t lusting. I don’t feel that way about Ishmael, despite his aesthetics. Truth is, I’m still not 100% cool with his dereliction of duties, even if it was for love.

  I wasn’t supposed to be a vampire in this lifetime. I was supposed to continue my magical, witchy studies.

  He veers south now, following a toll road that takes us through the hilly canyons separating Orange County from Riverside County, where real mountain lions still live, which always kind of blows my mind. I read recently that nearly four thousand mountain lions live in Southern California. Those things terrify even me.

  Below is a semi-mountainous range, somewhere between hills and mountains and several thousands of feet high. Forests dot the landscape below with impressive eucalyptus trees and not-so-impressive pines and oaks, most of which are stunted, twisted, and thirsting for water. Stretching as far as the eye can see are scrub brushes, game trails, and piles of boulders having long since bubbled up from the depths of the earth. The smell of dust is mingled with a heady mix of other plants, the most noticeable being sage.

  Ishmael angles a little more east, even further away from the few homes that I can see. Here, the hills turn a bit more mountainous and craggy. Beyond them would be the 15 Freeway that leads to both San Diego and Las Vegas. At our current angle, we would soon come across Lake Elsinore and its semi-famous lake monster, Elsie. Unfortunately for those of you looking for it, I trapped it in another world, along with its human, Dr. Lichtenstein (but that’s a story for another time).

  Now we’re descending toward a pile of rocks and a massive pile of branches and downed trees. Wait, there’s a hint of a roof within that pile. We circle the mostly buried structure, until I’m low enough for my feet to touch, at which point he releases me and I land, running, until I regain my balance.

  He lands next to me, his wings retracting and disappearing, pretty much exactly as do my own.

  “You know, I could have flown with you here,” I say, rubbing my shoulders. I had dangled for nearly twenty minutes.

  I note that no one, not even someone with a drone, would likely know there’s a structure under this rubble. Heck, I’m standing next to it, and I can barely believe my eyes. Where does a fallen angel live? I’m thinking in a cabin under a pile of debris.

  “Join me?” he asks, waving toward what might be an opening within the branches and tree trunks.

  It’s a good thing I can take care of myself, and this guy asking me to join him in what has to be the creepiest house ever, was once my guardian angel. Otherwise, someone would be getting murdered tonight.

  “Lead the way,” I say.

  He does, meandering through a maze-like barrier of rocks, plants, branches and trenches, most of which, upon closer observation, have been purposely placed or dug here. By Ishmael? Probably.

  Meanwhile, I’m trying hard not to notice how perfectly proportioned his shoulders are with his waist. I do note he’s about three feet shorter than his true angelic self. Meaning, in the process of becoming human—if that’s what he is—he shrank a few feet, though is still super-tall.

  He ducks under an overhang of branches and opens a door hidden somewhere in the shadows. All of it obscured by the aforementioned shoulders.

  The door opens silently as he steps through.

  He motions for me to follow...

  Chapter Sixteen

  I do as asked, slipping past him as he closes the door behind me.

  His movements are so smooth they seem rehearsed somehow. The word liquid comes to mind. Like water moving down a mountain: ease and flow. Or watching a ballroom dancer step with otherworldly coordination. I watched LeBron James the other day weave down the court and dunk the basketball in a manner that suggested he was toying with the other team. Ishmael moves like this and more. In fact, he could have been one of these nearby mountain lions, moving in the shadows with grace and fluidity.

  Pretty sure I just walked into a museum. It is so packed with statues, art, and oversized furniture. Like seriously heavy furniture. Fit for a palace, certainly too big for a cabin in the woods. A sprawling, distressed leather couch that seems a better fit in a lodge for the gods. Random tables too big for coffee tables, yet too small for dining tables. These are pushed up against the walls and overflow with what looks like priceless jade and marble statues. How had he gotten some of the bigger stuff through the door? I can almost imagine him peeling up a corner of the roof.

  “You live here, Ishmael?” I ask, turning and taking it all in. “And before you answer... enough with the knowing, silent, brooding looks. I need you to talk to me. Like, for real. With actual human words and maybe, just maybe, a little emotion.”

  He tilts his head and cracks a grin. “Fair enough, Samantha Moon. Yes, I live here. Would you care for something to drink?”

  The thought of a running refrigerator in this forgotten, wildly furnished space, is a mildly humorous one. So, to see what the heck passes for a drink in an angel home, I say, “Sure. What do you have?”

  “Bottled water. Wine. Beer. All kept in a cooler down in the cellar.”

  Okay, that makes sense. So, likely, no utility bill. And how would he set up a utility bill, anyway? Then again, I seriously doubt this out-of-the-way cabin has any such hookups. “I’ll take a bottled water.”

  His eyes flash with pleasure. The reaction is interesting to me. He clearly enjoys helping me. This is, of course, the first time I’ve asked him for anything. Likely, all his past help had been done behind the scenes, with no acknowledgment on my part. Oops. Then again, in my defense, I hadn’t known he existed, either.

  “I’ll be right back,” he says, and his voice sounds slightly more human and less robotic. Becoming human is likely not an easy thing to do. Probably less so for a creature who likely spent his existence communicating with his peers via telepathy.

  “How did you pay for the water?” I ask, when I hear him coming back up what I assume are the cellar stairs. “Or any of this stuff, for that matter?” Though he can’t see me, I motion toward the furniture and a nearby Roman bust that looks legitimately ancient.

  He pauses at the kitchen entryway. “I’m a fallen angel, Samantha. I take what I want with no ramifications. It’s still new to me, but I don’t hate the freedom.”

  There’s no light to speak of, and the windows are either covered with boards or hidden behind the bigger furniture. Likely, this had once been a hunting lodge. Had Ishmael stolen it, or happened across it? And decided to make it his personal Fortress of Solitude.

  As he hands me the water, his muscles flex in ways I’m pretty sure the human male anatomy never intended to flex.

  “Could you put a shirt on?” I ask.

  The expression on his face seems to suggest he’s thinking, ‘you’re lucky I found pants that fit.’ But, alas, he disappears behind a pile of fabrics—mostly blankets—and emerges holding a ridiculous poncho of all things. He slips it over his head and poof! Just like that, his perfect body disappears. Probably for the best. I need to see him as average. That kind of crazy perfection is hard on the brain, especially when I still don’t know what the heck is going on with him or us.

  “Where did you get all this stuff?” I ask, glancing around.

  “Everywhere, Sam. I’ve been collecting this for many years.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  He’s trying his best not to do that staring thing, but he can’t seem to help it. Also, I’m pretty sure this whole ‘having real conversations’ thing is new to him. He’s doing a good job, though. It almost feels like I’m talking to a real person, and not something celestial and ancient.

  “I’ve known for some time that I would need to live in the physical world once I became human. With that in mind, I had been collecting what you see before you over the years. Things I thought I might need.”

  I point to a giant gumball machine in the corner. “You needed a gumball machine?”

  “Admittedly, I chose items randomly, especially if they caught my eye. For all I knew, such a machine would be a necessity. Admittedly, I have not used it. Would you like one now?”

  I grin. “Sure.”

  Watching him fiddle with the contraption’s lever and dial elicits a chuckle from me. He ignores my laughter, so focused is he on producing a gumball for me. I ask if he needs a quarter, and he says it doesn’t need one, which is a relief, since I don’t have one on me. Finally, I hear a click and the sound of a single gumball rolling inside it. He turns the dial again, evidently getting the hang of it. When he turns around, he holds out two gumballs in his palm triumphantly. He hands me the red one, and keeps the white one in for himself, popping it in and chewing energetically.

  After a few moments of chomping, he says, “My gum has lost its flavor.”

  “Same here,” I say, and he hands over a trash can, where I spit my gum. He tries to spit his, but it sort of just dribbles out of his mouth. Likely, this was his first attempt at spitting.

  He wipes his chin. “That was good for a few moments. Then, not so much.”

  “A little stale and hard, but that’s a gumball for you. Ishmael, what the heck is going on here? How did you end up in this place? Are you human now?”

  He gestures for me to sit in a deep, oversized chair covered in what appears to be both bear and lion skins. As I ease down, he does the same in a chair opposite me, itself adorn in a pile of afghan blankets of the type my grandma used to make us. Did he rob someone’s nana, too?

  He sees my perplexed expression. “The hides were from a hunter I’d been observing. He seemed to have more than enough, and so I relieved him of some. The colorful blankets—”

  “Called afghans.”

  “Yes, afghans. Those were lifted from a box of donations at a Salvation Army. The box had sat there for many days. The charity center didn’t seem interested.”

  “Ah,” I say. “You selectively steal.”

  “From those who do not appear to miss it or need it, yes. It is not in my nature to cause too much distress.”

  “But it is for other fallen angels?”

  “Yes, Sam. But I am atypical. I didn’t fall because I craved power and enjoyed hurting others. Quite simply, I fell for you and only you.”

  Okay, that made my lady parts do a back flip.

  “What you see before you is me trying to understand how humans live. What use did I have for blankets and chairs when my home had been in the center of the sun? Even then, I was never there for long. You were my charge, Samantha. Over the eons and lifetimes, on this planet and others. Always, you were my sole focus.”

  Surely, I had been all shapes and sizes and sexes of my many incarnations. I wondered if he preferred my current physical appearance and thus, decided to pull the trigger, so to speak. “So, you got booted from your home, then what? You found this cabin and decided to decorate the place?”

  “Yes, Sam. I found it a decade or so ago and have been preparing it ever since. I was celestial then, and I could come and go anywhere I pleased. But I knew, to love you fully, I would need to someday be corporeal. With that in mind, I set about looking for a place to call home, and a place to bide my time.”

  “Waiting for me to come around,” I say.

  “In a word, yes.”

  “How did you know I wanted to speak with you?”

  “Because I will always hear your call, Samantha Moon. That will never go away. You and only you. Only my access to your thoughts is lost.”

  “Yet, you can somehow hear me when I call to you? Even when I think it?”

  “Yes, though hearing isn’t quite the right word. It’s more of a tugging feeling. It’s a physical reaction to your call. In essence, I can’t not come to you, whether you need help or not. That said, I am no longer obligated to help, but I will, every time. You have my promise.”

  “Except for that one time,” I say. “When you looked the other way.”

  “I did not look away, Sam. I was nearby, watching it all unfold, and it was terrible to behold. It was not your destiny to be so attacked. I directly contributed to your death, and for that, I am sorry.”

  “Not to mention you were relieved of your duties,” I say.

  “And banished from my home.”

  “You must have been annoyed when I found Kingsley so soon.”

  “No, Sam. I was and am happy for you. I wanted you to move on and find love and be happy again. I did not need it to be with me, not now. Eternity is a long time.”

  I wave at his cluttered lodge. “You will wait here for an eternity?”

  “This, or somewhere like it. For now, it is suitable. I am close to you, and that is enough.”

  “But you were already close to me—you were my guardian angel, for god’s sake.”

  He smiles. “I wanted more than to just observe you from the shadows. I wanted to step into the light and into your life.”

  “Okay, pal. Hold up. Where did you learn English?”

  “From watching you, Samantha Moon. I learned many things from you.”

  Okay, wow, lion and bear pelts are shockingly comfortable, and I hate that I think that. I find myself running my fingers through the two types of fur. Both seem soft yet thick, and, weirdly, battle ready. Both, I know, can withstand most natural assaults. A bullet, not so much. Claws and teeth, yes.

  “How did you become human?” I ask.

  “I would rather not say.”

  “Can I force you to say?”

  “No, Sam.”

  “But if you want to rebuild my trust, you probably should,” I add, knowing I am manipulating the situation. Then again, I can only feel how I feel, and right now, I haven’t a clue what to make of this poncho-wearing, white-winged giant.