Sentinel of Heaven (7 page)

His jaw had
been slack with shock beneath his bleeding nose.

“Answer me!”
she screamed, raising her stick higher.

“Okay!  Okay!”
he squealed and flinched back against the machines. 

She’d limped
out without thinking, leaving all her clothes behind, shaking with a mix of
righteous anger and terror.

That night as
she sat in her little house, sick with apprehension wondering how she'd get her
things out of his clutches, Jeanine called her cell-phone.

“You come by
tomorrow,” said the rough voice laconically.  “You come by the laundromat
tomorrow first thing and I'll give you all your duds back.”

“I didn't know
my number was listed,” Moira muttered without thinking.

“It's not, but
I got my ways.  My nephew, that limp sack of shit, called me up right after you
left – right in the middle of my afternoon stories.  Wanted me to come take
over so he could go to the hospital and get his nose seen to.”  She pronounced
it more like 'horse-spittal'.

Now she rasped
an old smoker's laugh.  “Little yeller turd wanted to call the cops and press
charges.  Ain't that somethin'?  I told him 'yeah, you go on and do it; first
thing they're gonna do is snicker at your sorry mug for gettin' tore up by a
tiny cripple girl' – no offense – 'and then they're gonna smell the MJ on you
and send you to county for possession and then it won't be your
face
smartin',
it'll be your
ass
'.”

More rough
sawing chuckles, as if this was a capital jest.

“So I went
round and got your stuff before he had a chance to do anythin' to it and sent
him off to his momma's to get his boo-boos fixed.  I got your bags in my car,
all warshed and dried, so you come by tomorrow to get 'em.”

“Jeanine,
thank you... I can't thank you enough.”

“Pshaw,
nothin'.  After all the nonsense you've had to deal with outta him, a free
warsh and dry's the least I can do.”

“I'll try to
keep out of his way.  I don't want to make any trouble,” she answered slowly.  “But
if he touches me again, I
am
going to kill him.  You can bank on that.”

“Shit, doll –”
replied Jeanine, “God don't love me
that
much,” and hung up.

Moira
chuckled, remembering.  It could be funny now.

Leo's eyes were
hard as agates, his pupils dilated; the muscle on the side of his jaw was
flexing.  She looked up at him and felt her amusement drain away, although a
ghost of her smile stayed.

“So since then
I'd been trying to take my laundry out to the city I work in... if I do it
after work it has to be on a Friday night, because by the time I come home I'm
useless for all the next day from the pain and fatigue.  If I have to do it on
a Saturday, I have to pay for the gas to go out there and back an extra day and
I'm useless all of Sunday.

“If I go any
other day, I have to go to Jeanine's.  Especially today – I can't have anyone
from my work knowing I'm out and about.  I could lose my job.

“And I have to
go today; I was coming up on needing it anyway but with all the linens we used,
cleaning you up...”

Leo relaxed
somewhat, the tension in his brow smoothing away.  He pointed to her, to the
laundry pile, then to some location outside the house obviously meant to
represent the laundromat.

“Yeah, I'm
going to go do it today.  Just as soon as I finish this.”  She ate another bite
of her grapefruit.

Leo smiled in
a way that showed all his teeth and lit his eyes disconcertingly.  He pointed
to her, to himself, to the laundry pile, and to the outside.

We're
going to go do it today.

His stare was
direct and certain – the mien of a mastiff in full protect mode.

Don't
laugh,
she reminded herself, covering her smile by standing up to discard
the first grapefruit rind in the trash and pick up the second with the plate on
which it waited.

“I think at
this point there are a few important details to consider,” Moira answered as she
sat back down.  She popped open her pill bottle and shook out two; so far it
was a two pill morning, with an option to renew in a few hours.

“Namely,” she
continued, “the ones on your back.  Your wings, dearheart.  I can't fit you
into my tiny car, but even if I could we can't let everyone know that the guy
sleeping over at my house has more than the regular number of appendages...”

They might
all want their own angels and I didn't bring enough to share with the class
,
she thought, and pressed her lips tight again.

Leo studied
the floor for a long moment, clearly crestfallen but not ready to surrender the
problem.  When he looked up to catch her gaze he held up a finger for a moment,
and about-faced to show her his back.  The process was slow; she had time to
nearly finish her grapefruit as she watched.  
With him around I might get
inured to seeing miracles,
she mused.

His wings were
shrinking.  They shivered where he held them tightly folded, billowing like
sails in a strong wind.  With each breath he took they squeezed a bit smaller. 
First she noticed that the top joints no longer threatened to brush against the
ceiling, then the tips of his foremost pinion feathers lifted free of the
linoleum.  She marked his progress by their length: they brushed against his
ankles.  They passed the hems of his sweatpants. Then she could see the backs
of his knees.

The wings
sized down to a pair of limbs that would not have looked out of place on a
swan.  When the feather tips were even with the base of his derriere Leo loosed
the drawstring and held out his waistband with his thumbs to tuck them into the
back of his pants.

But he wasn't
done yet.  The feathers were gradually flattening – the shadows marking each
separate quill becoming mere lines.  The upper joints pressed the tops of his
shoulders, then merged with the skin.

When it was
all over, perhaps ten minutes after it had begun, it looked like he had an
intricately detailed tattoo of a set of folded wings from the top of his
trapezius over each shoulder to somewhere just above the backs of his thighs.

He turned to
face her again, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his brow, then spreading his
hands – voilà!

“That... is a
really decent trick, Leo.  But if you don't mind my asking, why haven't you
done that before now?”

His hands
meandered back and forth: lots of reasons.  He held up one finger, then curled
his spread hands and pressed them slowly towards each other.

“The process
takes a long time and some effort, sure.”

He held up two
fingers, then scratched his nails lightly and rapidly up his arms, then hugged
himself and twitched all over.

“It itches and
just generally feels weird, huh?” she clarified, spooning up the last bite of
fruit.

He nodded and
held up three fingers, then reached up and over his shoulders, waving his hands
in the vacant air where his appendages should have been.

“They're a
part of you,” she translated, “and it seems wrong to be without them.”

He nodded
again.  She set her plate on the table; he was picking it up again before her
fingers let go of it, to discard the other rind and give it and the spoon a
quick rinse.

“I can see how
it'd be useful sometimes, though...” she said to his broad back.

A vision rose
up in her mind, powerful as a tidal wave – him rolled fully onto his dorsal
side in the midst of his blanket-nest, his hair spread out around him on a
pillow and her palms braced against his bare chest.

She was riding
him.  She could see passion and desire for her in his eyes.

Christ.  Moira
wouldn't be able to do it for long, not with the way her knee was but oh,
wouldn't it be worth the attempt...

The picture
she had was so complete that she could feel his powerful hands on her sides,
guiding her... 
I wish my imagination had an off-button,
she thought
weakly.

Leo was
staring at her in the here and now with blank concern.  She shook her head to
clear it.

“Forgive me; I
derailed my train of thought,” she murmured.  “In any case, I'm not sure yet
that this is a good idea.  I would need you to agree to a few things first.”

He nodded
slowly, reasonably willing to hear her out.

“I know you
are a warrior, and I get the feeling you're also a leader of some sort.  You
doing chores and things for me doesn't hide it.  You're a person that operates
on his own terms, and usually is the one giving orders instead of the other way
around.  Would that be safe to assume?”

His face
neutral, his nod and shrug indicated this was generally so.

“But I have to
live with these people and I've done it for years, day in and day out.  I know
their ways better than you do.  So if I let you go with me I have to be the one
in charge.”

He gazed at
her:  no comment.

“I mean it,
Leo.  If I say go, we go.  If I say stay, we stay.  And if I tell you ‘no’, on
anything
while we're out among them, you obey.”

After a long
moment he inclined his head in assent.

“This isn't a
power-play.  We can't let anyone know what you really are.  They'd try to take
you away if they did.”

His eyes put
the emphasis on the word “try”, but he didn't argue.

“I'm hoping
that Jeanine is there and we've got no issues, although she might get a bit
nosy and ask for some story about you.  I'll figure that out once we're there. 
But we might be unlucky and wind up with Chester.

“I can tell
you up front that, unless he actually lays a hand on me, you are not allowed to
do anything to him.”

His gaze
narrowed speculatively.  He gave it some consideration.  Then he smiled in that
wolfish way again and nodded happily.

“You are too
damn shrewd for my comfort, angel.  I will be watching you.  Very closely.”

He saluted
her, less than reverently.

“Well.  If
I've got a bodyguard like yourself for today's adventure, I'm going to change
clothes,” she announced and levered herself to her feet.

Out of long
habit created through years alone she was pulling her shirt off as she walked
into the bedroom, not bothering to shut the door behind her.

When she
turned back in realization Leo was in the doorway, watching her with an
unreadable expression.

Keep
going,
she told herself. 
This is probably no more significant to him
than watching a cat groom itself is to me.

“In the
eternal war between men and women,” she began, forcing herself to ape a
scholarly tone as she continued to strip, “all women past puberty probably have
an outfit like the one I am removing – a collection of garments that are
combined for the sole purpose of silently shouting 'No!  Don't look at me,
don't talk to me, don't touch me!'  That's why I was wearing it when I came out
this morning.”

His eyes
widened and he pointed to himself.

“No, dearheart
– for Laundry Day.”

Leo's lips
shaped a silent “oh”, and he looked relieved.

“And I'd wager
that all women have a different outfit put together for the exact opposite
purpose – a style that says 'look at me, talk to me, come close to me' – for
the right man, at least.”

Naked, she
reached into the closet and pulled out the referenced items, laying them on the
bed with the proper reverence a knight would show his armor.

Black satin
undies, bikini-cut; black bra that matched them (or at least came pretty doggone
close), lined with lace.  The straps were decorated with rhinestones, meant to
be seen.  Her tightest pair of skinny black jeans.  Her low-cut “hello officer”
red blouse with the three-quarter sleeves.

Between the
two outfits only the knee-high engineer boots remained in common, but in
conjunction with the other parts they would change from “these feet can stomp
your brains in” to “these legs could wrap around your waist and squeeze you
till you begged for mercy.”

“Unfortunately,”
she continued, “there's a certain type of guy that would always consider
himself the 'right man'.  And because of that, he is always wrong.”

She stepped
into the underwear and slid them into place, the waistband too low to chafe
against her scars.  The bra took more of a scoop and shimmy to seat properly –
it had been expensive but worth every cent since it seemed to twist the laws of
space and time entirely to do amazing things for her cleavage.

Moira shrugged
into the shirt and pulled it down.  It was her power-red: it struck a
consummate harmony with her complexion and hair color, clinging to her curves
perfectly.  The neckline came to just below the tops of the bra cups, revealing
the lace and gem-studded straps.

The jeans
required some serious wiggling and she concentrated on it, mindful of her
back.  When they were up and fastened they flattened her abdomen, tightened her
thighs, and lifted her butt.

She turned
again to the angel.  “Different, right?”

Obviously so. 
His expression was approving.

She smiled and
retrieved her socks and boots and sat down on the bed – but when she bent to
draw them on her spine complained savagely.

In the next
heartbeat Leo was kneeling in front of her, having seen the flash of pain cross
her face.  He took the socks from her limp fingers, laid one on the table of
his broad thigh and gathered the other in his hands to slide it over her toes.

“Damn,” she
said softly.  “Service with a smile, huh?”

His hands
snugged the socks into place, moving in a firm caress over her ankles.  When
his fingers paused in her instep, he looked up into her face with a calm but
inscrutable visage, causing her heart rate to jump.

He helped her
guide the boots over her pants legs but let her settle the complicated
configuration of chrome buckles and zippers and fasteners herself.  When
everything was in place she leaned back on her elbows and crossed her legs;
perfection achieved.

His smile was
sleek, his eyes alight.  He gestured at her, encompassing her whole look, and
mouthed “Why?”

“I told you
that you weren't to hurt him unless he touched me,” she answered.

He agreed
silently.  She shifted her pose, sliding the inside of one boot up her thigh
and letting her legs go the slightest bit akimbo, tilting her chin to gaze up
at him through her lashes.

“This outfit
is his invitation to suicide.”

Leo broke into
silent gleeful laughter.  She grinned at him in return but her eyes were cold
as stone. 

“ I can fake
being good, Leo.  So much so I can fool almost everyone... but don’t ever
believe I’m a nice person inside.”

His warm
glance suggested a glib lack of concern as he bent over her hand and kissed it,
then raised her gently to her feet.

She showed him
her hampers and her heavy canvas laundry bags.  With a will he gathered up her
clothes and linens and bagged them as she did a once-over of her room to make
sure all the loose odds and ends were collected.

Leo hefted the
bags onto his shoulder without any effort, brushing his hair out of his eyes as
he squeezed back into the kitchen.

Moira
remembered the tie-backs and ducked into her bathroom to retrieve her brush. 
When she returned he was kneeling to pack the pile of clothes in the hall into
the lesser-full of the bags.

“Leo,” she
called softly, “let me pull your hair back.”

He craned to
look at her over his shoulder, huffed his locks out of his face and smiled –
but shook his head no.

“Why not?”
Moira asked, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

Leo turned and
sat down on the faded linoleum.  He tousled his steel grey mane down into his
face, then clenched his hands into claws and snarled soundlessly, looking for
all the world like a prehistoric berserker.

Then he
gathered his hair back in his fist and pulled his expression into a simper,
batting his eyes at her.

“You think...
that having your hair pulled back in a pony-tail would make you look... like a
girl?  Feminine?”  Her confusion erupted into sudden delighted laughter,
startling him.

“Oh... oh,
honey!” she gasped.  “Oh honey, no!”  She got herself under control with some
difficulty, still smiling broadly.

“Just let me
do it for you, just to try it.  It doesn't take long.  If you don't like how it
looks, we can take it right back down.”

He gave a
long-suffering sigh despite the humor in his eyes, and nodded.

She stepped
around him, unable to repress her glee.  While his wings gone Moira was able to
stand with her legs right against his flesh.  She leaned against his back,
reveling for a moment in the warmth of his skin.

With gentle
hands she gathered up his hair, letting the thick strands flow over her knuckles. 
It wasn't soft, exactly, but sleek and wiry.  Once she had it all in a loose
grip she brushed out the ends, easing out the tangles.  Then she moved up for
longer strokes from the top of his head back down through her hand and away. 
The first caress of the brush along his scalp made him sigh in pleasure.

“See?” she
whispered down to him.  “Not all bad.”

Moira had
never brushed a man's hair like this... Taylor's had been short and all the
other men in her life had been there too briefly to permit such a personal
intrusion, even if some did have the same length of mane.  She hadn't realized
what an intimate act it could be, especially since both of them seemed to
derive a sensual joy from it.