Heavenly Lover

Heavenly Lover

By

Sharon Hamilton
Copyright © 2011 by Sharon Hamilton

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

License Notes

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Chapter 1

This was all wrong. Wrong that there was a cemetery in Heaven. Wrong that angels could die.

Claire followed behind the older Mother Guardian. A crystalline path separated multicolored hedges of rocket snapdragons, red roses, and Sweet William, framing the gardens beyond as if to hold them at bay. Afternoon sunshine reflected off the greenhouse windowpanes, warming her bare skin. A syrupy aroma from crimson lilies assaulted her nostrils, making the air thick and breathing difficult.

So peaceful.

So deadly.

The scent of the end of things and of loss surrounded her.

She’d been summoned. But instead of asking her to come to the familiar third floor office in the Administration Building, Mother Guardian had chosen
this
place, forbidden to young Guardians. It was a place Claire had never been.

The angel cemetery.

The messenger had spewed out the order in a rush, fracturing Claire’s afternoon reading of an erotic romance she kept tucked under the silk pillows of her lounge. “Come packed, and ready to go,” she’d said. So, Claire’s yellow transport bag was now slung over her right shoulder, hanging half empty like the flesh on an old horse.

But why was she to start her new mission at the place of unhappy endings?

Father works in mysterious ways.
Mother Guardian’s anxiety-laced thoughts filled Claire’s mind.

Did they find my books?
Claire couldn’t help the errant thought from sweeping through her mind, but it was too late to take it back.

At the ancient, rusted gate, Mother turned to face her but did not smile. Her gnarled hand rested on the crooked handle above an empty keyhole. Her skin was wrinkled, like a flesh-colored prune. “You shouldn’t read such things.”

Claire knew it was true. Did Mother understand how hard she’d tried?

Not nearly hard enough, Claire.

So this was it. Punishment. The consequences she’d dreaded. They’d discovered her secret. Mother pushed the gate open, and Claire jumped as the rusty gate screamed in protest, like the helpless cries of an injured animal.

A strange and eerily peaceful world colored by green grasses and brilliant white stone markers opened in front of her. A chilling breeze blew back the hairs at the sides of her face. Unseen fingers pulled at her skirts, clawed at her bodice, whispering warnings. The wind writhed through the fabric of her white gown, disturbing the silver and gold hand-stitched symbols of her station. Her badges. Each represented a troubled human life saved from suicide. Each chronicled her perfect track record.

Tall, dark trees leaned into the cemetery plot, as if bowing out of respect for the elder Guardian, then swayed backwards, signaling that Claire wasn’t worthy. Her senses were on full alert, as every leaf or blade of grass presented a threat.

As they made their way between the rows of graves, Mother’s fingers patted the tops of the marble headstones, one by one. Claire was careful not to let any part of her gown or bag come in contact with the silent markers. Another blast of cold air traveled down her spine. The gown billowed out like a parachute, and then just as quickly, deflated, getting caught between her legs as she worked to keep up with the older angel.

Mother stopped, slapping her leathery palm against the top of one gravestone with a whack.

Time to face the music
.

Her mentor’s lips formed a grim line, indicating she knew of Claire’s unease. “You
should
be scared, child.” The old woman’s half-lidded eyes scanned wearily over the undulating grasses behind Claire, a scene that would have been peaceful and serene if not for so much sadness hovering like a shroud over a meadow dotted by pure white stones.

“A very powerful dark angel did this,” Mother whispered, then peered directly into Claire’s eyes, burning a hole all the way to her soul. “He makes them believe they are falling into his arms, but instead they fall into the pits of the Underworld.”

There were several dozen grave markers, all arranged in crisp rows, cooled by the swirling air and tickled by an occasional stray leaf or twig.

“One dark angel took all these sisters?” Claire asked.

“Like you, my dear, he has never lost a soul.” Mother’s eyes scanned Claire, as if she waited for a reaction. “There are others, of course,” she motioned beyond the trees, “fallen, but not at
his
hand. This one has a particular taste for Guardians. He seeks them out on purpose, considers it his calling.”

Claire searched the relief chiseled out of the smooth marble, hesitant to touch the design of a harp. Above the image, one name was etched in block letters: M-E-L-O-D-Y. Her fingers twitched with desire to connect with the spirit of the angel there, wanting to touch the flowing lines and sharp angles of the block letters. She tensed her hands at her sides. No dates were listed, nothing else written to describe the buried angel. Claire grieved for the loss of this being, someone who must have been loved as a human and who’d been cherished and trained as an angel to give some other human a second chance. A chance perhaps she never had. Such a harsh end to a gentle soul created to bring brightness and life to a dark and dying world.

Preyed upon
, Claire heard Mother’s mental warning.

Had Melody’s trusting nature been used as a tool against her? The permanence of the angel’s grave made Claire shudder.

“I wish I’d known her,” she said.

“Would make no difference. I knew them all. Only one of us needs to bear this pain. I’m trained for it. You’re not.”

Claire had felt the same loss when other Guardians came home from unsuccessful missions. The crying and wringing of hands would go on for a few hours until the angel was carried to the wash, where the memory of their failed mission in the human world would be erased. They would emerge fresh, eager to study again, to garden, or to commune with their sisters. Heavenly smiles would be etched into faces as permanent as the symbol on the stone marker. Claire had assisted in several of these ritual cleansings over the years, and they were never easy. She’d resisted the urge to ask her angel sisters questions, to learn what had gone so horribly wrong.

“No. We can’t have the memories here.” Mother’s terse comment tore through Claire.

Claire forced her mind in another direction. “You have a mission for me, then?”

“Yes.” Mother handed Claire a sheet of white paper featuring the picture of an attractive young man with dark curly hair cascading over his forehead and down to his shoulders to end behind his ears. “This is your new charge, Daniel DePalma.”

Claire traced her finger across the paper, down the slender nose and across full lips, barely aware she’d caught her breath.

“Those are not proper thoughts for a Guardian to have.” Mother said.

Claire could see the older woman’s right eye twitch, and her crooked smile with pursed lips seemed barely under control.

“He’s been preyed on by this dark one,” Mother added.

“Thought the dark one only liked Guardians.”

Mother shrugged. “I think even a Dark angel gets lonely. Who knows? I don’t study their habits, and neither should you.”

Claire nodded. She flipped the paper back and forth, noting information was listed only on one side. “No file this time?”

“No. We think he decided tonight to take his life. You’re going to have to hurry to get there in time. It may already be too late.”

Claire tensed, irritated they’d wasted so much time. She turned, anxious to leave the cemetery and get started on her new mission.

“Just a minute.” Mother’s fingers dug into Claire’s shoulder, spinning her around.

Something is still wrong.
Claire rubbed her collarbone.

“Let me give this charge to another Guardian, Claire,” Mother said. “I asked that it
not
be you. I was overruled.” Mother’s black eyes watched her intently, eyes that had begun to water.

Which meant Father had chosen Claire especially for this mission. But why?

Father works in mysterious ways.

“You can refuse it. In fact, I wish you would,” Mother insisted.

“You think I’ll fail? I’ve never failed.”

“Careful of the pride, child. Every Guardian eventually comes across a human she cannot save.”

Now Claire was determined to take the mission. “I won’t refuse it. I can’t refuse Father.”

“I understand, but I was hoping you would anyway. You see, this is going to be your last mission. You’re to be retired here, to become an instructor.”

Claire’s blood began to boil. She clutched the white paper, squared her shoulders and said through her teeth, “How could you do this to me, after all my faithful years of service to the Guardianship?”

“Shame on you, Claire! Teaching is an honorable profession. Think of the inspiration you will be to the younger ones—an instructor with a perfect record.”

“I’m a much better Guardian
doing
the work, not
teaching
it,” Claire spat, but she knew it was no use. She’d learned long ago not to try to change Mother’s mind. It was as permanent as life eternal. Repositioning her yellow transport bag, she turned to leave.

“No appearing in his dreams, or in real time,” Mother said to her back. “Don’t talk to him, either, and no whispering. No notes! Don’t give messages to someone else to tell him things.” Mother’s voice rose as Claire left, walking at first, then breaking into a full run. “And just so I can tell him I’ve covered it, don’t use your dust for anything but helping him dream, Claire. No one must see your dust or feel its power. But most important, he is
never
to know you exist,
never
to feel your presence. Is that clear?”

A well-dented taxi, covered in spray-painted graffiti, idled as Claire emerged from the garden path. Sprays of diamond dust covered leaves and flowers at her side like a coating of sugar. She hopped into the rear bench seat and closed the door.

Thank God it’s Doris.

The cabbie’s eyes watched her in the rear view mirror as they descended through the clouds. Claire stared at the back of Doris’s head, noting the short, unnaturally bright red hair that stuck out under a weathered cabbie hat worn too far back and at an angle.

Doris never said much on the way down. She had lots of questions and comments when she brought Claire back up. Claire sensed in her a kinship, a certain rebellious spirit. And she guessed the cabbie had been warned not to interfere with a Guardian and her mission.

Claire never knew another Guardian angel, except one, who had any memories of life as a human before the wash erased the memories. Just as she was certain she would never need to eat or sleep and wouldn’t age, she knew she remembered things about being human—like the day she was murdered. She had carefully guarded this secret. It meant something was wrong with Father’s wash mechanism.

Or something was wrong with
her
.

In a matter of seconds, she was running down Daniel’s crushed granite driveway in the dark to the two-story stone cottage tucked behind two massive homes. Claire smelled the loamy, wet earth coated with the heavy fog that covered most of the area as she looked up to see a tiny window in a small gable under the eave.

She willed herself through the wooden front door, remaining invisible. She hoped Daniel hadn’t heard her transport bag drop at her feet. The room air was hot and stifling, filled with pale grey smoke that burned her eyes and scorched her throat, causing her to gag. She held her breath and checked her invisibility, her sensors scanning the room. No sign of the dark angel.

Seated in front of a lit fireplace was her new charge, muscled and bare-chested, holding a large carving knife in his right hand, working his way up from deepening the shallow cuts he’d made on his left forearm. A thin trickle of blood dripped onto his black slacks, the only clothes he wore. He was cursing in a foreign tongue, sweat streaming down the sides of his cheeks. His lips curled in a sneer as he held his breath, ready to cut.

Claire saw the alarm keypad to the right of the front door. She willed herself there and pushed the red fire button, sending a shrieking noise throughout the living room. Daniel took too long to put his hands to his ears.
He must be drunk.
She saw the smashed neck of a wine bottle and pieces of green glass littering the floor at his feet. Remnants of a painting, torn and ripped apart from its frame, bubbled in the fireplace, sending a black streak of oily smoke up the wall.

Before Daniel could stand, Claire willed herself back to him. She rubbed her thumb against her first two fingers, producing dust, and applied the sparkling mixture to the raw flesh on his forearm. Golden threads began the work of restoring his skin. He didn’t notice.

He danced around the glass, stumbling over to the flashing red alarm. Claire smelled the stench of terror and sweat mixed with the acid burning paint smoke coming from the fireplace. His chest was streaked with wide ribbons of red wine; his cheeks were flushed, and his full lips were stained deep burgundy.

The fury inside him was so intense Claire almost stepped back, but she held her ground as he punched a code into the pad that did nothing to stop the noise. He tried again, then ripped the keypad from the wall and left it dangling by two wires. The head-splitting sound abruptly stopped and he watched the pad sway back and forth, its red light refusing to submit. He turned his back on it.

She leaned against his massive shoulder muscles, feeling the heat of his body, reading the torment in his soul. She wrapped her arms around him. The salty smell of his body was an elixir. Claire tingled with energy.

“I am here, Daniel. Nothing can harm you now,” she whispered. As if he could hear or feel her, he sighed in unison, a small moan from deep inside his throat, interrupting the few seconds of calm they shared together.

A faint siren got closer; she wondered what he would say to the rescue team that was surely on its way.

“Christ,” he whispered. “I can’t even do this right.”