She was damned beautiful, this woman.
“Prettier than moonlight on the bayou,” he muttered to himself.
“Black.” He called down. “With a touch of cinnamon.”
Tck…tck…tck…
The rusted brass minute hand of the cathedral’s clock ground to a halt, but everything inside the rehabilitated ruin was already still and suspended in cold. With its gray-brown stone and wood visage, the Shepherd’s Keep did not favor softness. In all his years of living here, it had never been a real home, yet it was the only home he had. It was such a grim and ominous place that even its spires pointed accusingly at the sky, the very dormitory of heaven. A storm was brewing there, one that couldn’t be seen, only felt and heard.
Tck, tck, tck…
His hands began to tremble.
The clock hadn’t moved from the witching hour, yet he heard it, he heard the ticking. Spinning around, he watched in horror as the Shepherd’s Keep crumbled around him, the gray day shifting into the blackest of nights. He was cold and alone in a dark forest, demons surrounding him, laughing at him, mocking him. He was powerless in their presence. He wasalwaysso powerless.
Falling to his knees, he was ready to accept the fate of the damned; but one of the Good Shepherd’s many teachings arose from memory:When will you learn, Cornelius, you must stand with a warrior’s focus and fortitude against evil lest you be consumed by it.
He didn’t want to be consumed; he no longer wanted to be afraid. He needed to be seen as worthy in the eyes of the Shepherd and by proxy, the eyes of God.
“You are the holy redeemer of faith, the mouthpiece of the Lord’s will on earth. You are His sword and our salvation. Good Shepherd of the wayward flock, continue to guide the unholy, for it is your will and your vision that lead the wicked into the blessed eternity of the Lord’s Grace…”
He continued the oft-recited mantra of the Shepherd’s flock until his fear subsided and he was cocooned in the peace and solitude of salvation.
Tck, tck, tck…
No!
Terror jolted him into wakefulness. Chest heaving, he opened his eyes to find himself looking up toward a concrete ceiling in a deeply shadowed room. Sitting up slowly, he looked down the length of his blanket-covered body and beheld an angel of the fairest skin with waves of silken ebony hair perched at the foot of his bed. She gazed at him through soulful eyes and a beauty so haunting his heart constricted.
“Fallen,” he whispered.
The fallen angel’s eyebrow rose and she snorted in disgust before lowering her gaze, continuing to reassemble the gun that lay in fragments at the foot of the bed.
Tck, tck, tck.The metallic sound rang out within the cell, her hands sure in their accuracy and speed as she assembled, dismantled, and reassembled the weapon again and again.
Cornelius admired her skill, her precision. It reminded him of the passion the Good Shepherd had long ago forbade him to practice at the Keep. There had been many beatings to curtail his obsession, but it had never been completely extinguished. Delilah had promised that if their sojourn to this wretched place was successful she might allow him one indulgence before returning to the Shepherd’s Keep.
“Where I’m from in Ireland, guns are not allowed,” he informed her, stopping her before she began breaking the gun down again.
“Mar sin, ta tu as an oilean?” she asked, focused on the metal pieces. Her voice wasn’t as delicate as her form, it was melodic but raspy as if rarely used.
“Yes, Ireland is my home,” he responded. “But I wasn’t born there. You are from Ireland?”
She had no trace of the Emerald Isle in her English.
Cornelius propped a pillow between his back and the cold cinder wall, fascinated with the beauty of the fallen angel. Unlike many of his brothers, he’d never risen high enough in rank to be allowed to interact with females. Before his sojourn, he’d only heard of the Shepherd’s child Delilah, he’d never encountered demons and especially never dreamed of meeting a fallen angel.
She placed the gun on top of the mattress. “What’s your name, saint?”
Cornelius smiled. He was far from a saint but was honored to be thought of as such. Even the demons had believed him a greater man than he was. Perhaps this journey had already elevated his place in the order.
He observed her more carefully, paying attention to the inked discolorations creeping up her neck from beneath the formfitting long-sleeved black cotton top. She also wore thick fuzzy pink socks and blue jeans that fit her like a serpent’s skin. He didn’t allow his eyes to linger on her well-formed breasts or shapely thighs; instead he focused on the tattooed skeletal hand superimposed over her right hand. He thought of the long-haired demon with a similar tattoo and pressed into the wall, drawing his knees toward his chest.
“Your name,” the fallen demanded, aiming the gun toward his head. Though he knew it wasn’t loaded, he felt fear. Fear for his soul.
“Cornelius Shepherdson.”
Though she was fallen, the female was small, no more than five feet three, with an almost childlike form if one ignored her noticeable curves. His brothers would never be so cowed, even if the gun pointed at them was loaded and cocked to fire.
