The Angel (The Original Sinners) (8 page)

“You aren’t angry?” she asked as he stripped her of his shirt
and laid her in the bed. He slipped out of his pants and pressed his naked body
into hers.

“Eleanor, will you ever learn that when I say ‘I love you’ I
mean it?”

“Eventually maybe,” she said and smiled at him through the
dark. “I’ll miss you so much this summer. Are you sure I have to go? Running
away really isn’t my thing. Not anymore anyway.”

“I’m afraid in this scenario, discretion will be the better
part of valor. Eleanor, this isn’t simply about the Church or the public finding
out about us. There is more to fear than someone simply discovering that we’re
together.”

“You don’t agree with Kingsley, do you? You don’t think it was
just an old client of mine who stole my file, right?”

“I’m truly in the dark on this matter.” Søren gazed toward the
shadows that lurked outside of the lamplight. “Whoever it is, and for whatever
reason…I will not let them harm you. I’d let them cut out my heart first.”

Nora reached out and touched the wound over Søren’s heart. A
superficial cut, it would heal in just days. The wounds underneath, however,
were old and scarified and likely would never completely heal. Scar tissue,
she’d once read, was the strongest of all tissues. Maybe Søren’s heart was so
strong because it was so scarred.

“Eleanor? Do you remember my father’s funeral?”

Nora closed her eyes and became suddenly seventeen years old
again. She’d faked a good excuse for her mother and accompanied Søren to his
father’s funeral. She was there for Claire, his sixteen-year-old sister. Or at
least, that was the cover story.

The night after the visitation she’d found Søren sitting in a
large armchair in his childhood bedroom—a bedroom that held only the memories of
nightmares for him. She remembered walking in and seeing him sitting, praying
silently in a pool of moonlight. The white light had illuminated his face, his
pale hair. On silent feet she came to him, and he’d taken her in his arms and
held her. It had been the first time he’d admitted that he loved her, had loved
her from the moment he saw her when she was only fifteen years old. His sadness
and grief for the father who’d tried to destroy him came out that night as he
told her the horror story that was his childhood. She’d only meant to comfort
him. She’d made it to the next morning still a virgin, but just barely.

Nora giggled. “Oh, no. As long as I live I will never forget
that night.”

Søren caressed her lips with his fingertips. “I know what you
overheard, little one.”

Another memory came to her. This time it wasn’t nearly so
pleasant. After leaving Søren that night, she’d headed for the room she and
Claire were sharing. The house had over a dozen bedrooms but Søren insisted that
neither she nor Claire sleep alone. The minute they’d arrived at the house,
Søren changed. He’d always been highly protective of her, but suddenly he’d
turned almost paranoid with both her and Claire. He acted as if there was a
dangerous ghost haunting his childhood home. And in Søren’s arms that night she
learned that wasn’t far from the truth. On her way to the guest room she saw the
outline of a woman standing by an open window. She stood with her arms crossed
over her chest and her head bowed. Next to her stood Søren, and they whispered
back and forth to each other. Nora had slipped into a shadow and hidden herself
there. Closer she crept and heard the woman say to Søren three words—
I’m not sorry.
And she heard Søren’s three-word reply.
Neither am I.

At that moment Nora knew she’d heard something she shouldn’t.
She disappeared into the room she shared with Claire and stared wide-awake at
the ceiling until dawn—her body burning from where Søren had touched her, her
mind reeling with what she thought she’d heard.

At the funeral she’d come face-to-face with the woman Søren had
been speaking to the night before. Tall and elegant with auburn hair and violet
eyes, the woman had terrified her with both her beauty and the despair that
seemed to surround her like a dark halo. Søren introduced her as Elizabeth, his
elder sister, and introduced Nora as a friend of Claire’s. Nora remembered
studying Elizabeth and realizing that she was looking not at a person, but at a
ghost. A living, breathing ghost, but a ghost all the same. Even in the dark,
Nora saw that ghost flicker across Søren’s gray eyes.

“I promised I would protect you, little one. That is the only
reason I’m sending you away,” Søren said and pulled Nora into his viselike
arms.

“Your sister… You’re afraid they’ll find out about what
Elizabeth did, aren’t you?”

Søren pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

“My fear of Elizabeth is the same as it has always been. I’m
afraid she’ll find out about you.”

5

On Monday morning, Suzanne woke up with the dawn and
didn’t even bother turning on her computer. She’d never been stymied like this
before. It was as if some sort of presence sat on the other end of the internet
purposely thwarting her every attempt to find out anything of substance about
Father Marcus Stearns. But today she was going to pull out all the stops.
Desperate times called for desperate research.

She was going offline.

The library opened early but she arrived even before the doors
unlocked. As soon as they let her in, Suzanne rushed the research desk with
pencils and notepaper. She hadn’t done hardcopy research in years. Probably not
since middle school when her entire class had taken a field trip to the library
and learned how to dig through the fat green tomes and write down the name, date
and issue of the periodical they were looking for. Suzanne didn’t have much to
go on. All she’d gleaned from her online research was that Father Marcus Stearns
had been at Sacred Heart for nearly twenty years and had presided at no other
parishes. Apparently Father Stearns also acted as confessor to a nearby order of
Benedictine sisters. One of them had a blog and mentioned that their Father
Stearns, like her, had been born in New Hampshire. Guessing he graduated
seminary at age twenty-eight, that meant he would be forty-seven or forty-eight.
So she knew his name, approximate age and state of birth. A place to start at
least.

By noon, Suzanne decided to give up again. There was simply
nothing on Marcus Stearns out there. But she took one more dive into the stacks
and came up with a Marcus Stearns who’d been in his early forties in 1963 and
lived in New Hampshire. At least it was the same name if not the right age.
Possibly a relative, she decided, and kept digging.

By one o’clock, Suzanne knew she was onto something.

Marcus Augustus Stearns, born in England in 1920, was the heir
to a small barony. He’d come to New England in his late thirties and used his
title to marry into a spectacularly wealthy family. The mother, Daisy, had
realized her Edith Wharton fantasy and married the baron despite the fact that
his only asset was his title. After just one year of marriage, Daisy had given
birth to a daughter, Elizabeth Bennett Stearns. Not just an Edith Wharton fan
but a Jane Austen fan as well, Suzanne noted. And then barely one year after,
Suzanne was thrilled to discover, a son, Marcus Lennox Stearns, was born. Beyond
that, the trail went cold. Marcus the Younger seemingly disappeared. No school
records, no college records, no mentions of him at all.

Suzanne leaned back in the chair in her cramped library study
carrel and closed her eyes.

Catholic priests made almost no money. No one became a Catholic
priest to get rich. And yet, if this was the same Marcus Stearns, he’d given up
a huge inheritance and a title, albeit a minor one, in the British peerage to
become a priest. She had trouble believing it was possible. Still, a tantalizing
possibility.

“Father Stearns,” she whispered to herself, “who the hell are
you?”

* * *

When Nora awoke the next morning, she found her neck
bare of her collar and the bed empty but for her. She disposed of all evidence
of her presence—she replaced the white sheets on the bed, put the candles away
and made a sweep for any stray female flotsam—before dressing in Søren’s
bathroom and heading down to the kitchen. Nora got out her purse and wrote a
check for Owen Perry’s school fund. She knew Søren would find a way to get the
money to the Perry family without them learning it was from her. Her small
shadow at church, Owen’s sweet, innocent company during Mass was always welcome.
But still…she had a very bad reputation to uphold.

Leaving the check on Søren’s table, Nora groaned when she saw
he’d left her another note. This time the note was in a sealed envelope and on
the outside were the words
Do not open until
instructed.

“Sadist,” Nora growled and stuffed the envelope into her purse.
She dug out her keys and checked the time on her cell phone. She had one new
text message.

Hurry up,
it read.
My cock can’t wait to see you. Love, The
Griffin.

Nora wrote back,
Just for that, I’m taking the scenic
route.

With a hint of heaviness in her heart, Nora left Søren’s house
and headed to her car. She threw her stuff and herself inside and started the
engine.

Griffin… It had been over a year and a half since they’d slept
together. The last time had probably been in Miami at his father’s beach house.
She’d lied to Wesley and said she’d had a book-signing at an alternative
bookstore down there when all she really wanted to do was get away from her
slightly disapproving roommate for a few days and have uninterrupted kinky sex.
She’d gotten her wish. She probably would have continued to see Griffin even
after going back to Søren, but even Søren’s patience could be tested by the
young and often obnoxious Griffin Fiske. For Søren, S&M was like air or
water—he needed it to function. For Griffin, S&M was a game that he played
to get laid as often as humanly possible.

Nora remembered her last night with Griffin at the beach house.
They’d gone out to a club and brought home some insanely hot Portuguese kid
named Mateo or Mateus…something like that. Bi-curious and barely twenty-one,
he’d never been with another guy before or done kink. Nora had taken her turn
first, Griffin second. Then they’d tackled him at the same time. The next
morning the kid dropped to his knees begging them to take him back to New York
with them.

Suddenly Nora found herself grinning like an idiot. She and
Griffin did make a good team.

Nora revved up her engine, put on some Beastie Boys, headed for
the parkway and hit the gas.

Fuck the scenic route.

* * *

It didn’t matter where he’d fallen asleep the night
before—the couch in the living room, his tiny twin bed at his grandmother’s
house, his own bed under his mother’s roof—no matter what bed he fell asleep in,
he was always back in the hospital bed when he woke up.

Michael remembered the dryness in his mouth when he’d finally
woken up, how his lips felt like torn paper. He remembered the tubing around his
nose and the wires running in and out of his arms. He’d been afraid to move his
hands, afraid if he tried they wouldn’t be there to move.

He’d opened his eyes and blinked painfully. A man in black
stood at the window in the hospital room staring out onto the helicopter pad.
Deepest night, the only light in the room came from the life-support equipment
that beeped and breathed in the dark.

“Father S?” It took everything Michael had to croak out those
words.

His priest turned from the window and walked to his bed.
Looking down on Michael, he smiled and Michael saw nothing in the smile but
forgiveness.

“Your mother is here, Michael,” his priest said in a voice
quiet as the night that surrounded them. “She’s with your father and the doctor
right now. Should I find her for you?”

Michael shook his head. He wasn’t ready for his family yet,
wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to face them again.

“Am I,” he began and coughed a little. “Am I going to
hell?”

Father S reached out and briefly placed a hand on Michael’s
forehead.

“No,” he said simply and with such conviction that Michael
immediately believed him.

Michael looked up into his priest’s face. He’d admired Father S
from the moment his family started going to Sacred Heart. What he wouldn’t give
to have Father S’s peace and certainty.

“Am I going to live?” Michael barely heard his own voice.

“You are, yes. Thank God.” Michael heard the shadow of fear
lurking behind the relief in his priest’s voice. He never imagined he’d ever see
Father S afraid of anything. Even in the dark he could see a smudge of red on
Father S’s white collar. Michael’s own blood, he realized. “Your hands will have
some numbness, but all feeling should return eventually. You lost a great deal
of blood, and will be fatigued for a few weeks as you recover. I’m afraid you’ll
be in counseling for some time. I’ve asked your family if they’ll allow me to
counsel you instead of sending you to a secular psychiatrist. They’re discussing
it with your doctor right now.”

“I don’t think even you can help me.”

Father S had looked down at him and exhaled slowly.

“Your mother told me about the pictures your father found you
looking at a few months ago, and the cuts and burns.”

Only the severe blood loss kept Michael from blushing.

“Dad thinks I’m sick. He left Mom because they keep fighting
over me. I think I’m sick too. I want bad things. I don’t know why.” He paused
to cough again. “I don’t know what I am.”

Father S looked at him for a minute and Michael felt himself
being weighed in his priest’s mind. He must have passed the test because Father
S sat on the side of Michael’s bed and began to speak words Michael never even
dreamed he would hear from the sainted Father Marcus Stearns.

“Michael, as a priest I hear a hundred confessions every week.
But now if you’ll allow me, I’m going to let you hear my confession. And be
warned, it is a long confession and will certainly shock you.”

“Your confession?” Michael swallowed the sandpaper in his
throat.

Father S crossed his arms over his chest and met Michael’s
eyes. Michael studied his priest’s profile. Even now he seemed the epitome of
piety and tranquility, his handsome face unlined and serene, his eyes as strong
and gray as steel.

“Michael,” Father S said, his voice low but steady, “I know
what you are.”

“You do?”

“Yes. You are something different—something some people find
strange and fearful—but what you are is as natural as being male or female or
awake or asleep. The things you desire, you long for, I understand them. You
belong in a different world from the one you now live in.”

“What world? What am I?” Michael asked, wanting to sit up but
finding his body would not work with him yet.

Father S had met his eyes and Michael saw the hint of a smile
in them, a secret smile and the passing shadow of a green-eyed girl who could
make any man lose his religion.

“My confession begins,” Father S said, “as the confessions of
many men begin—with three words.”

“Father, forgive me?” Michael hazarded a guess.

Father S sighed.

“I met Eleanor.”

Michael opened his eyes and saw, as he knew he would, that he
lay in his own small, neat room at his mother’s house. Rolling out of bed, he
threw on clothes and booted up his computer. His hands shivered with excitement
when he saw he had an email from Nora.

Michael—A car will pick you up Thursday morning at ten. Pack whatever you
want, but I’ll make sure you get everything you need. It’s a long drive so
bring something to read and eat. Can’t have you wasting away. God knows
you’ll need your strength this summer. Oh, don’t bother packing your halo,
Angel. You’re not going to need it.

This message, and your pants, will self-destruct in five
minutes.

Covering his mouth as he laughed, Michael leaned back in his
desk chair.

Michael knew enough about dominants and submissives to know
that the relationship between them wasn’t always sexual. He’d happily live as
Nora’s personal slave whether she fucked him or not. Dominants got off on
dominating, and submissives got off on submitting, and if Nora wanted him to mop
his floor with his hair, he’d do it with bliss. Finally his long hair would come
in handy. But something about that line—
Don’t bother
packing your halo
—made him think that Nora intended to use him for
something other than janitorial services. Awesome.

You
took my halo over a year ago,
he wrote and hit Send with a smile.

Making a quick mental calculation he realized he had forty-nine
hours until the car came for him. Forty-nine hours… He’d pack tomorrow, leave
the next day, and today he’d be lazy and read.

Digging behind his headboard, he found his copy of Nora’s
newest novel. He hadn’t read this one yet. He’d been forcing himself to wait
until school was out so he could properly enjoy it. Propping himself up on his
pillows, Michael started to flip through to the first page. On the way he
stopped at the dedication and looked for Nora’s usual secret message to Father
S.

Michael’s eyes widened a little when he saw the dedication
page.

To W.R. Many waters…

Michael furrowed his brow at the message.

Who the hell was W.R.?

* * *

It took a lot of money to impress Nora Sutherlin. She
had enough money of her own to not think very highly of it. And she’d had enough
wealthy clients, very wealthy clients and stratospherically wealthy clients and
acquaintances, and seen their homes, at least their bedrooms, to know there was
more elegance and beauty in Søren’s rectory than in all their mansions
combined.

But at her first glimpse of Griffin’s house, farm,
estate…dukedom, she couldn’t hold back a flabbergasted, “Holy shit, Griff…”

Nora double-checked her GPS to make sure she hadn’t ended up in
Scotland by mistake. Soft rolling hills lay back under sheets of softest green.
A white fence ran the length of the fore and back land. And the house—Greek
Revival with a touch of medieval castle—rose up proudly, straining across her
field of vision. No wonder Griffin had been haunting The 8th Circle less these
days. Now that he had installed himself in this secluded Wonderland, he had a
private playground of his very own.

She drove up to the massive gate—wrought iron and guarded by
two stone griffins on either side. It seemed Griffin had been named for the
family avatar.

Nora pressed the call button on the intercom. She’d expected to
hear the voice of a servant or security guard.