Taste Test, Archangels Unleashed

by Kiernan Kelly Table of Contents Earthbound - 2 Healing Hands - 24 Dominion Quod Obsequium - 48 A Torquere Press...

Author: Kelly Kiernan

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by Kiernan Kelly

Table of Contents

Earthbound - 2

Healing Hands - 24

Dominion Quod Obsequium - 48

A Torquere Press Taste Test - 1

Earthbound

by Kiernan Kelly

Chapter One

So many things hit Gabriel at once that he sank to his knees, squeezed his eyes shut, and covered his ears, shaking. Horrible sounds, screeching and blaring, threatened to burst his eardrums; sights unlike any he'd ever seen passed before his eyes. Worst of all was the smell. Caustic and bitter, sweet and sour, it choked the air. Since he couldn't cover his ears and hold his nose at the same time, he was forced to endure it. Even breathing through his mouth didn't help. It polluted his lungs, making each breath an agony. For a moment, he wondered if he'd been sent to the wrong place. He should be on Earth, but given the foulness of the atmosphere of the surroundings he found himself in, he was more inclined to believe he'd landed in Hell. A warm hand gently touching his shoulder nearly startled him right out of his skin. He jumped, lost his balance, and landed on his angelic rear end with an ungraceful thump. He looked up into warm brown eyes and a bright smile. "Malak?" It had been so long since Gabriel had spoken Malak's name that his tongue found it a stranger, but his heart hadn't forgotten. It stopped its frantic beating against his breastbone at the sight of the familiar, friendly face. Malak hadn't changed; he looked as Gabriel remembered him from the last time Gabriel had seen him, three thousand years ago in Sodom. "Hello, Gabriel," Malak said kindly. His hands grasped Gabriel's firmly, pulling him to his feet. "Welcome to Earth. More precisely, welcome to Miami." "How did you know where I'd be? For that matter, how did you know I was coming at all?" Gabriel's hand flew to his nose, pinching his nostrils closed. "And what is that horrible smell?" "Michael bent the rules and told me. He was afraid you'd freak out, and knew you'd need some help adjusting and finding your way around. The last time you were here was when Sodom burned. Things have changed a little. By the way, that horrible smell, as you call it, is a McDonald's. It's fast food -- hamburgers. They're delicious." "You mean you eat something that smells that way… on purpose?" He shook his head, not willing to believe it. "Anyway, I don't know why Michael would worry about me. I am an Archangel, after all. I'm fine." "Yeah, we could see how fine you were. You were one step above fetal position," a new voice said, chuckling. The voice was deep and powerful, and utterly seductive. Gabriel couldn't help but look at the tall, stunningly handsome, blond man standing just behind Malak, but wrenched his gaze away just as A Torquere Press Taste Test - 2

quickly when he realized who it was, allowing a slight sneer to curl his lip. "Demon," he said, enriching every syllable with disdain. "Gabriel! Be nice," Malak admonished. "Former demon, thank you very much. Saving the world from the Apocalypse earned me my halo back," Cael said. He spoke the truth and Gabriel knew it. Not long ago, Cael and Malak had faced the Four Horsemen and successfully defeated them, with only a little Archangelic help at the very end. They'd both earned the forgiveness and embrace of Heaven for their courageous efforts. Still, the arrogant tilt to Cael's head and pompous tone in his voice rubbed Gabriel the wrong way. Whatever did a sweet, innocent angel like Malak ever see in someone like Cael? He's positively devilish, Gabriel mused. He let out a very un-angelic snort. "You may have a halo, but you still reek of brimstone." Cael turned to Malak, jerking a thumb in Gabriel's direction. "You're kidding, right? We're supposed to help him?" Blue eyes suddenly turned hard, glaring at Gabriel. "I say we take him up to the Everglades and feed him to the gators." Gabriel returned Cael's stare with an icy one of his own. "Try it, Demon. I've sent worse creatures than you into the Pits." "Will both of you please stop it?" Malak growled, stepping between them. "You're acting like children!" "He started it," Cael grumbled under his breath. "Cael, I mean it! Knock it off," Malak said. He swatted Cael on the shoulder and turned to Gabriel. "Michael didn't say how long you'd be here, Gabriel." "One full turn of the moon." "A month. We call it a 'month,' Gabe," Cael said. "Lesson One: nobody talks like that anymore." Gabriel noticed Cael's arm snake around Malak's waist, and resisted the urge to lecture them on the sins of the flesh. There would be time for that later. Gabriel would make a point of it. "My name is Gabriel, not Gabe, and there's nothing wrong with the way I speak. I'm an Archangel, and I demand you address me with the respect I deserve!" Gabriel snarled. "Your name should be 'shit' since you're so full of it, and go ahead, talk like an extra from Spartacus. See if I care. I was only trying to help!" Cael fired back.


Again Malak stepped between them. "I'm losing patience with the two of you. This is serious

business, in case you've forgotten. Gabriel, you've petitioned Heaven to set the true Horsemen

free. Is that what you truly want, to blow your horn and release them? Do you really want to end

the world?"

"Indeed. From all reports we've gotten lately, I've become convinced this world is corrupted

beyond redemption. Hatred, vice, and immorality are rampant! I was sent to see things for

myself, to determine if I wish to proceed with my petition. So far, I haven't been impressed,"

Gabriel said, looking pointedly toward Cael. "Why do you stay with him, Malak? He smells

worse than the fast-food restaurant."

Cael blustered, but Malak silenced him with a hand on his arm. "I stay with him because I love

him, Gabriel. That's part of what you need to learn, I think. There are many wonderful things

about this world that are worth saving, love chief among them."

"Love is nothing new to me, Malak. Heaven created it, after all," Gabriel said, shrugging a

shoulder. He frowned and brushed at a dirty spot on his otherwise pristine, white robe. "This

planet is absolutely filthy! Look at this! I've been here all of five minutes, and I'm already

soiled."

Malak placed a hand over Cael's mouth. "Not a word, Cael, if you know what's good for you."

He turned to Gabriel. "I guess it's something you'll have to learn for yourself. Let's go back to our

house and map out a plan."

"I don't smell," Cael said to Malak, shooting Gabriel a dirty look. Gabriel barely resisted sticking

his tongue out at him.

"Of course not, hon," Malak told him with a smile. "Come on, let's go."

Gabriel rolled his eyes at the endearment, but dutifully spread his wings and launched himself

into the sky with Malak and Cael, heading toward the sea.


Chapter Two Their original house had been destroyed, razed to the ground by an army of demons during one of the battles Malak and Cael had fought against one of Lucifer's disciples. Malak told Gabriel that Cael had rebuilt it exactly the way it was, on the very same stretch of sand on Islamorada, and down to the last shingle, because Cael loved him and knew how much Malak had cherished their home by the sea. Gabriel sniffed imperiously. Love. There was that word again. He couldn't understand why Malak insisted the world was rich in it. Gabriel knew better. He'd been listening to reports avidly, ever since Malak and Cael had gone up against the Horsemen and drawn his attention to the world of mortals. Murders, rapes, abuse, hatred, indignities suffered upon the innocent that rivaled any committed in the foulest pits of Hell abounded. He'd heard about things that made him weep, and eventually forced his decision to petition for the true Horsemen. The world of Men was lost, as far as he was concerned. Privately, he thought they should have let Lucifer have it. After all, it seemed as though most of it was in his back pocket anyway. The Boss hadn't seen it that way. Of course, Gabriel could understand His reasoning. After all, He had created these creatures and no one wanted to see their handiwork obliterated without good reason. He'd sent Gabriel to earth to determine if Gabriel truly thought there was nothing left of Men worth redeeming. Gabriel had promised to keep an open mind, but truthfully, he didn't see how he could be swayed to rescind his petition. He was convinced Love had been confused with Lust millennia ago in Sodom, and now, centuries later, their meanings were so completely scrambled that no one knew the difference anymore. Even sweet and kind Malak had fallen in lust with a demon and called it "love." In Gabriel's experience -- and he had plenty of it, having been created in the Beginning -- Love was cool and pure, untainted by wants of the flesh. Sex was only a means for procreation -- an ungainly, messy affair, about which Gabriel had voiced his doubts eons ago. Surely the Boss might have invented an easier, less ghastly way for humans to multiply -- cellular mitosis, perhaps. In any case, it didn't apply to angels anyway, since they were created, not born. He really couldn't understand why Malak would want to go through the motions when there was no hope for conception. It no longer mattered. The world was lost. It would be best to end it and start anew, from scratch. Gabriel followed Malak and Cael up a set of broad, whitewashed steps that led from the sand to the house. The house was large and airy, and quite comfortable. Each room was painted in a different pastel color, and scattered with overstuffed furniture, much of which was trimmed in white wicker. Fresh flowers added dabs of brighter color and lent their fragrance to the air. It was much cooler inside than out, Gabriel noticed immediately. The sweat collected on his brow dissipated; his robe no longer stuck to his skin. Central air-conditioning, Malak called the phenomena, and Gabriel admitted it was an inspired invention.


It was a shame humans were so corrupt. They could be ingenious little monkeys when they put their minds to it. He was still uncomfortable, though, unused to his body. In his true form, a being of light, he'd never been bothered by annoying things like gravity. Now he felt as though he weighed a thousand stones. It was a constant battle to force his muscles to cooperate. Flying had exhausted him, and twice he'd tripped over his own feet in the sand, once nearly falling flat on his face. It was unseemly for an Archangel, and he was growing to despise his new form. Malak showed Gabriel to the bedroom that would be his for the duration of his stay. It consisted of a large bed piled high with pillows and a down comforter, a small writing desk, and a chest of drawers. A set of tall windows overlooked the beach and rolling waves outside. "I think you'll find everything you need, Gabriel. The clothes in the closet should fit, and the bathroom is through here," Malak said, pointing to a door. "Towels, shampoo, conditioner, soap, toilet paper, shaving cream-" Gabriel sniffed indignantly. "I'll have no need for any of that, Malak. I'm an Archangel. We aren't subject to the same disgusting bodily functions as humans." Malak smiled, and Gabriel heard Cael laugh out loud from the doorway. Honestly, he was beginning to truly dislike that demon. "Gabriel, you've had to take human form in order to live on the earthly plane, just as we did," Malak said. "You'll find that, while you've retained most of your powers, you'll still be slave to all the same trials and tribulations of the frailer human body." "Hornswaggle!" Gabriel retorted, lifting his nose in the air and crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. "I refuse." "I don't think you really have a choice, Gabby," Cael said, snorting. "Gabriel! My name is Gabriel!" Cael's mocking laughter floated in the air. Yes, I am definitely beginning to dislike that demon intensely, Gabriel thought, turning his back on both of them and striding to the window. Perhaps they'd take the hint and leave him alone. He stared out at the ocean, watching the waves sluice to the shore. Although he would never admit it, he felt weary. His body sagged, as if his bones were turning to jelly, unwilling to support his weight. Luckily, Malak was bright enough to understand that Gabriel wished to be left in peace for a while, and shooed Cael out, closing the door behind them.


Finally, he found himself alone. Gabriel shuffled to the bed and crawled onto the mattress, sighing in blessed relief. It was soft, the pillows softer, and he quickly surrendered to sleep.


Chapter Three "These do not fit. My skin is bare! I cannot walk among the humans dressed this way. It's indecent. I shall need proper robes," Gabriel insisted, plucking at the pants he wore. They were beige, with many pockets, and only fell to brush his knees. His shirt was garishly colored, left his arms bare, and was decorated with a giant, yellow, smiling face in the center. Who would wish to wear this? It's a poorly drawn portrait, Gabriel thought, looking down at his shirt. It doesn't even have a nose. "They're supposed to fit that way, Gabriel. They're cargo shorts and that's a T-shirt. The shirt would fit better if you kept your wings insubstantial. Trust me, they're perfectly modest," Malak said with a smile, patting Gabriel's arm. "Modest? They're practically Puritanical!" Cael laughed. "You would say that, Demon. I suppose if it were up to you, everyone would run about naked," Gabriel sniffed. "Don't knock it ‘til you've tried it, Gabby. It was good enough for Adam and Eve." "And look where it got them!" Gabriel countered. He refrained from correcting Cael on the proper use of his name, since it only seemed to encourage the demon, making things worse. Instead, he turned his attention to the plate Malak placed in front of him. Food. He had to eat, Malak had explained, or his earthly form would die. Gabriel poked halfheartedly at the strands of pasta and red tomato sauce covering his plate. He had no idea of how to go about it, but refused to admit his ignorance. He decided he would wait until Malak and Cael began to eat, and follow their lead. How difficult could it possibly be? As it turned out, it was much trickier than he'd ever imagined. The damnable stuff refused to stay on the fork. It slipped through the tines, plopping back onto his plate every time Gabriel raised it to his mouth. Sauce splattered on his T-shirt, spraying the smiling face on it with speckles of red. He could tell Malak was holding back a grin, but, of course, Cael felt no such compulsion. He laughed out loud, merriment twinkling in his eyes. Gabriel had to admit that there was no malice in Cael's voice, though. He was just genuinely tickled by Gabriel's incompetence, which actually made Gabriel feel more embarrassed, like a child sitting at the table with his elders. "Spaghetti can be difficult, Gabriel. Twirl it on your fork, like this," Malak explained, demonstrating. "Don't forget -- we've had centuries of practice. You'll get the hang of it." "I won't need to get 'the hang' of anything, Malak. I won’t be staying long enough to warrant expertise," Gabriel said. He followed Malak's direction, twirling his fork through the slippery


strands, until he had a large clump tangled on the tines. Opening his mouth wide, his jaws cracking with the effort, he managed to shove the forkful of pasta inside. He found out quickly that one needed to grind the food into a paste between one's teeth before swallowing. Malak pounded him on the back, and Cael shoved a glass of water into his hand as Gabriel coughed and wheezed. Eventually, the spaghetti-ball dislodged from his throat and he could breathe again. It was an experience he wasn't eager to repeat, and pushed his plate away. "I am ready to begin my examination of the human world," he said. "Where shall we start?" "It's too late to start tonight, Gabriel. It's already dark. You won't be able to see much at night," Malak said, shaking his head. "We'll get a fresh start in the morning." "I don't wish to wait. I want to get this over with, Malak." "Keep your shorts on. The world isn't going anywhere. It'll still be here in the morning," Cael added. "I had no intention of removing my clothing," Gabriel retorted, sniffing disdainfully. "In addition, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't either. I have no ambition to look upon your skin." "It's an expression, Gabby, and there's nothing wrong with my skin. Malak can attest to that," Cael said with a wicked smile. "The sight would make my eyes bleed, and Malak is probably already blind. He's just too kind to tell you." Cael's eyes widened. "Was that a joke, Gabby? Oh, my God… I didn't think you were capable of humor." Gabriel ignored him, turning to Malak. "Must he blaspheme?" Malak only shrugged and chuckled. He gathered up the dishes and carried them to the kitchen. "Why don't you go relax and watch some TV, Gabriel? That should keep you entertained while I clean up. Cael, get the remote and show him how to work the television." It seemed to Gabriel that eating was extremely overrated. It took work to prepare the food, work to eat it, and work to clean up the mess. It hardly seemed worth the effort. He put it from his mind and followed Cael out of the dining area and into another room. Here, there were overstuffed chairs facing a flat box on the far wall.


"It's a plasma screen. Very high tech. Great picture quality, high def," Cael said, picking up a very small, rectangular object. He aimed it toward the box on the wall and hit a button with his thumb. Gabriel didn't understand a word Cael said, and was considering asking what language he was speaking when suddenly there was a flash of light and movement dancing across the surface of the flat box on the wall. Music blared as a human being spun a wheel decorated with colors and numbers. Another human being asked if the spinner wished to buy a vowel or solve the puzzle. It was quite amazing, and Gabriel couldn't resist the urge to walk closer, running his fingers over the smooth, thin plate behind which it seemed the humans moved. Abruptly there was a flicker, and the picture changed into a buxom young woman. She was talking about her undergarments, and how they lifted and separated. Her large, rounded breasts were directly under Gabriel's fingers. He pulled his hand away as if it'd been burned and felt himself blush. "Oops," Cael said from behind him, chuckling. The picture changed again. This time Gabriel watched as a little girl, a dog, and a scarecrow danced on a road made of yellow bricks. The scarecrow was singing something about not having a brain. Gabriel thought the lyrics might just apply to the entire planet and to one specific demon in particular. He turned around, stalking past Cael to the double doors that led onto a balcony. "I am going outside. Please do not follow me. I neither need nor wish your company, demon." Gabriel stepped onto the balcony and closed the doors behind him, mercifully cutting off the laughter that followed him outside. He braced his hands on the smooth white railing that edged the balcony, looking out over the sands. They were silver in the moonlight, and the waves seemed to sing a soothing lullaby. It was all quite beautiful, really. The Boss outdid Himself when He created the seas, Gabriel thought. Pity there wouldn't be anyone left to appreciate them. He sighed and let his eyes wander further over the gleaming sand. Movement caught his eye, something shuffling along at the edge of the water. It was a man, and he was behaving quite oddly. Then again, they all seem to behave oddly, Gabriel corrected himself. Still, he kept watching, curious as to what the man was going to do. The man toed the foam at the edge, then stood silently staring out at the black waves. Without warning, he suddenly walked forward into the ocean. Gabriel watched his lower legs disappear, then his hips, then his chest, until all Gabriel could see was his dark head bobbing in the water. Good Heavens! The man must be insane to enter the thunderous black ocean in the middle of the night! He'd drown! Suddenly, it was as if a light went on over Gabriel's head. The man knew he'd drown! He was committing suicide right before Gabriel's eyes!


Gabriel didn't think; he just reacted. He tore off the ugly, smiling face T-shirt, unfurled his wings in a whisper of white feathers, and jumped off the balcony. Several strong flaps and he was airborne, speeding over the sand toward the water. For a panicked moment, he couldn't see the man among the waves and cresting whitecaps. Then the moonlight hit upon a dark head bobbing in the water just before another wave pushed him under. Folding his wings back, Gabriel dived, plummeting like a rock from the sky. His wings stretched out again and he glided over the water, so close that the splashing spray wet his bare chest and belly. He dipped down, reaching, and was able to grab the cold body under the arms. Wings heaving, muscles straining, he plucked the man out of the water and flew toward the house. Gabriel alighted on the front porch and lay the coughing, sputtering man down on the sandy, weathered boards. "Malak! Cael!" he yelled, kneeling down. He looked down into the pale face gasping for air. What did one do to save the life of a human? Gabriel wasn't sure. He didn't understand the mechanics of the human body. Two eyes the color of whiskey blinked open, growing wide as the man continued to struggle for breath. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and Gabriel was given a glimpse of the man's soul. It glowed with sweetness, gentleness, and trust, while at the same time was etched deeply by pain. This man was a good one, kind and loving, and someone had hurt him badly enough to encourage him to take his own life. Gabriel was inexplicably moved, fear seizing his chest. From somewhere deep in his own soul came a startling, commanding imperative: Do not let this man die! The front door flung open, and suddenly Gabriel was being pushed away. Cael knelt down, rolled the man to his side and smacked him soundly on his back. Water spewed from the man's mouth, but the sound of him taking a deep breath was like a roar of victory to Gabriel's ears. "Bring him inside, Cael," Malak ordered. "I'll get some blankets." Gabriel hovered close by as Cael did as Malak bid him, feeling as anxious as a mother hen, nervous and giddy with relief at the same time. He didn't question why saving the life of one human was of such great importance to him, especially since he planned on calling for the annihilation of the entire species as soon as he returned to Heaven. All he knew was one thing: this man must live.


Chapter Four Golden eyes that reminded Gabriel of a hawk's, clear and sharp, blinked awake. No, not golden, exactly, Gabriel thought, reconsidering. There were flecks of copper and butterscotch in them, too, framed by long, dark brown eyelashes. Hair dried to the color of a bright copper penny fell in a mess of tangles as the man lifted his head. His was a handsome face, if momentarily puzzled, with a straight nose and strong jaw. Gabriel could see a quick mind behind his beautiful eyes, fitting the pieces together. They flashed with shock and pain as they darted from Malak to Cael and finally, to Gabriel. "What did you do? Oh, God… what did you do?" Agony darkened the man's features, his head dropping back to the pillow. "I saved your life, hum-" "Gabriel!" Malak hissed, shaking his head. He looked at the man, patting his arm. "You were drowning and Gabriel saved you. What's your name?" "Why? Why couldn't you have minded your own business?" The man's hand shot out and grabbed Malak's wrist, a decision that did not sit well with Cael, Gabriel noticed. "Hey, Flipper!" Cael cut in, his sleek pale brows knitting in a frown. "Back off, pal. Tell you what? I'll just cart your sorry ass back out to the ocean and dump it right where Gabe found it!" "For the last time, my name is Gabriel, and you will not touch him!" The venom in Gabriel's voice astonished even him. Malak and Cael's heads snapped up as both turned at the same time to stare at him. "I mean… he, uh… I… nevermind." Gabriel didn't know what was wrong with him. All he knew was that when Cael threatened the man, though Gabriel doubted Malak would allow him to follow through on his threat even if Cael intended to do so, a fury unlike anything he'd felt before flooded him. Protect him, an inner voice seemed to bellow, echoing in his head, in the very marrow of his bones. "O-kay," Malak said, cocking an eyebrow at Gabriel and gently removed the man's hand from his wrist. "Cael? Could I speak with you in the kitchen?" "What? And leave Gabby and Fish Boy alone in here? I don't think so, Malak," Cael said, shaking his head. "Cael. Kitchen. Now," Malak growled. Gabriel felt a momentary flash of satisfaction at the shocked look on Cael's face at Malak's commanding tone, and even more pleasure when Cael heeled and followed like an obedient puppy. Gabriel dismissed them both from his mind and looked at the man who lay on the sofa with his eyes closed. Beautiful eyes, Gabriel thought. They did funny things to the pit of Gabriel's


stomach, warmed him somehow. He found himself wanting to see them open again, to spend time appreciating their color, their depth, the way the copper strands within them glittered in the light. He remembered seeing the man's soul, fragile and hurt, and it made his own weep. "My name is Gabriel," he said, much more softly than he had before, almost in a whisper. "Won't you tell me your name? Please?" "Tommy. Tommy Barnes." His eyes remained closed, a tiny frown crinkling the skin between his eyebrows, as if he couldn't force them open to look upon the world. Gabriel curled his hand into a ball to keep himself from following an impulse to smooth the frown away with his fingers. "Tommy Tommy Barnes," Gabriel said, liking the way the name felt on his tongue. "Huh?" Tommy's eyes flew open, but then his lips quirked in a tiny smile. "Oh, ha-ha. Funny. No, it’s just one Tommy." "Oh." Gabriel liked Tommy's smile, as small and quick as it had been. He wanted to see it again, but something told him it would be a long while before he did. Sadness rolled off Tommy in waves, melancholia so deep that it made Gabriel ache for him. "Why did you try to end your life, Tommy?" "Why do you care?" Ah, that was a question for the ages, Gabriel thought. Why did he care? He was convinced humans had outlived their time, had degenerated so far into the pit of immorality as to be beyond saving. The simple truth was Gabriel didn't know why he cared -- only that he did. "I don't know," he answered truthfully, "but I do." "No, you don't. Nobody cares about me. Even Phillip didn't. He… he…" Tommy turned his face away from Gabriel, depriving him of the joy of looking into his eyes, but not before Gabriel saw the tears gathering in them. Without thinking, Gabriel cupped Tommy's chin and turned his face back toward him. "I do care. If I didn't, I wouldn't have saved you. Who is Phillip?" "I thought he loved me, but he dumped me." "Dumped you? In the ocean? No, Tommy, you must be mistaken. I saw you walk in." Gabriel saw that tiny smile struggle to turn up Tommy's lips again and felt his own curve in response. "I meant he broke up with me. He said I was getting old and boring. I'm only twenty-four! How is that old?" Now Gabriel did smile. He couldn't even remember back to when he'd been twenty-four -- he counted his years in eons. "That is not old, Tommy. You are an infant, compared to me, at least."


Golden eyes blinked, then a miracle -- a full, wide smile turned Tommy's lips, lighting his eyes, dimpling his cheek. It's not just his eyes that are beautiful, Gabriel realized with surprise. "You don't look so old," Tommy said, and his smile lingered, coaxing another in return from Gabriel. "I'm older than you can imagine. So, because of this Phillip, you sought to end your life?" Gabriel's fingers slid from Tommy's chin to his hair, letting the silky auburn curls slip through them. Tommy grew quiet again, making Gabriel wish sorely that he hadn't asked. "Maybe. I just felt so alone, you know? I guess it was pretty stupid." "No, this Phillip is the stupid one, if he turned his back on you." "When I was unconscious, I had the weirdest dream. I dreamt you had wings, that you were an angel sent to save me. That's pretty fucked up, huh?" Gabriel blushed at Tommy's use of the expletive, but smiled. "No, not at all. I'm only glad I reached you in time." Tommy's cheeks flushed, and it did something magical to his eyes, making them almost glow. "I didn't thank you, yet, did I? For saving me, I mean. Thanks." "It was my pleasure." Cael's voice interrupted them. "Well, what do you know? Gabby's playing nice with somebody. It's a miracle." "Cael!" Malak admonished. "Good to see you smiling, young man." "His name is Tommy Barnes," Gabriel said, without taking his eyes from Tommy's face. "Suus decor certantibus Olympus." Gabriel heard Malak and Cael gasp, and realized what he'd said aloud. His beauty rivals Heaven. He bit his lip, feeling the blood rush from his head to his feet. What demon-cast spell was this? Was it a failing of the frail human form that desire be induced at the drop of a hat? That was the only explanation Gabriel could fathom for his body's reaction to Tommy. His arms ached to gather Tommy into them. His lips burned to kiss him until they were both breathless, and other parts of Gabriel were… Was he guilty of one of the same crimes against Heaven that he'd accused human beings of -lust?


No, there was more to it than that, Gabriel realized. Lust was a shallow and selfish feeling, not the fierce urge to protect Tommy, to hold him close and keep him from harm, to salve the bitter wounds in his heart that Gabriel felt. Wasn't it? If not lust, then what was he feeling? Certainly not love. Gabriel knew nothing of Tommy other than his name. Love was not something that bloomed instantly. Was it? Love didn't make your pulse quicken until your blood pounded in your temples, or your lips constantly want to curve into a smile, or your arms ache from emptiness. He knew about love, felt it for his Heavenly brethren. Never once in all his existence had he felt like this. Gabriel stubbornly set his jaw, forcing himself to turn away from Tommy. No, what he felt was lust, and he would not allow it to rule him. Yet he could not refute the fact that he found Tommy beautiful beyond belief, sweet and tender, with a smile that warmed Gabriel to his very core. He couldn't keep his back to Tommy. Gabriel's body rebelled against his will, turning back of its own accord, as if drawn by a magnet of undeniable power. Tommy reached for his hand, and Gabriel let him hold it.


Chapter Five "You don't have to do this," Tommy said for the fifth time. Malak had made up the sofa for him with sheets, a comforter, and a pillow, after both he and Cael insisted Tommy stay with them for a few days. "Just until you decide what you want to do, where you want to go," they'd said. That was fine with Gabriel. He didn't know what he would do if Tommy wanted to leave. Follow him, he supposed. Stalk him. Within the space of a few hours, Tommy had become an obsession. Gabriel didn't like it, but he couldn't help it, either. Finally, Malak gave Gabriel a look heavy with significance. "Time for bed," he said, his dark eyes boring into Gabriel's. It was clear what Malak meant -- he didn't trust Gabriel to be alone with Tommy. Ordinarily, Gabriel would have been incensed at the lack of faith and thinly veiled accusation, but the truth was, Gabriel didn't trust himself either. Each step that took Gabriel further from Tommy's side was like a knife twisting in his heart, a physical pain that made it difficult to breathe. Alone in his room, he didn't lay down to sleep. He couldn't. Instead he paced, crossing the floor in front of the bed over and over again. Tommy lay in the living room almost directly beneath him -- no more than fifteen feet of vertical space separated them and yet, to Gabriel, it felt like miles. No one was watching Tommy. What if something happened to him? What if he decided to end his life again? After two hours of walking the floorboards, he couldn't stand it anymore. Slipping out of his bedroom, he crept silently downstairs to the living room, feeling his way through the dark house. Tommy lay on the sofa, sleeping. Gabriel could see him clearly in the moonlight filtering in through the windows. He'd removed his wet clothing, wearing nothing but a thin pair of white underwear lent him by Malak that exposed far more skin than they covered. The comforter had slipped during his dreams, falling in a heap on the floor. His face was soft in sleep, peaceful. Tommy's chest, pale in the darkness, narrowed in a sharp V to his lean hips. Long, firmly muscled legs stretched over the sofa, one bent at the knee. One arm was tucked under his head; the other was hung over the side of the sofa, fingers trailing the floor. Gabriel stood still for a couple of minutes, watching Tommy's chest rise and fall with each breath. He's safe, Gabriel told himself. You've seen for yourself. Go back to your room. No matter how his conscience nagged, Gabriel's body wouldn't obey. He remained where he was, standing near the sofa, staring down at Tommy, unable to look away. Something was wrong with his human form, Gabriel realized with a start. Between his legs, his penis grew hard, pressing painfully against the cargo shorts he still wore. His sac felt tight, swollen, and there was an aching hunger brewing low in his belly. He wanted to laugh and cry at


the same time, but mostly, he wanted to crawl onto the sofa with Tommy, lay with him so every inch of Tommy's flesh pressed against his own. "Gabriel?" Tommy's voice was sleep-rough, a throaty whisper in the darkness. "Yes, it's me." "What are you doing?" Gabriel swallowed hard, fighting the compelling urge to touch himself. "I came to check on you. Go back to sleep." "Stay with me? Please? I don't want to be alone, Gabriel." Gabriel knew he should flee. He should turn on his heel and run as fast as he could -- better yet, fly as fast he could and put miles between himself and the temptation that lay sprawled on the sofa. For that's what Tommy was, Gabriel thought, temptation personified. His very existence filled Gabriel's mind with lewd thoughts, tortured Gabriel’s flesh with carnal desires. For all his piety, Gabriel wasn't sure he could resist his body's urges, should he stay. Nor, if he were willing to be perfectly honest with himself, did he want to resist. The realization hit Gabriel hard, nearly driving him to his knees. He began to question why he felt as strongly about the expression of physical needs as he did, and in turn, the answers made him question the very structure of his belief system. How could it be wrong to want Tommy so much, when it felt so right, so natural? When every fiber in his being screamed for it, begged for it? How could he condemn someone like Tommy, whose only fault was wishing to be loved? For that matter, who was Gabriel to question love at all? Why was it sinful to share your body with someone else, to grant them comfort and seek the same? I was wrong. The revelation flared in his mind as if lit by a thousand candles, bright and clear. I was wrong about so much! Yes, there were problems in the world of men, horrible ones. There was pain, and degradation, and hate, but there was also sweetness, and hope, compassion, and beauty. These are things worth saving, he thought. He hadn't been aware of his own failings, his short-sightedness and arrogance, his pomposity and inflexibility, and they loomed now in his mind in stark relief, filling him with self-loathing and sorrow, and regret. Forgive me, he whispered into the darkness. I harbored in my heart the worst sin of all -- hate for what I did not understand.


A terrible heaviness lifted from him, making Gabriel feel as though he were as light as a feather. Great warmth filled him, reassuring him that he had been forgiven his faults, and at the same time granting him the knowledge that he'd been blessed with a precious gift -- someone to love. "Gabriel?" Tommy called again, one pale hand extending toward him. Gabriel took it. The connection between them was instantaneous and electrifying. Tommy felt it, too, Gabriel was sure. It showed in his eyes, copper and gold flashing in the moonlight. Gabriel knelt at the side of the sofa, clasping Tommy's hand to his chest. "I am not like other men, Tommy. I have no experience in physical love, and yet I crave you with a passion I cannot control. Should I stay with you, I fear I would not be able to keep myself from touching you." Long, slender fingers stroked his cheek gently, warm against his skin. Suddenly Tommy gasped, his eyes flashing open wide, and reached over Gabriel's shoulder. Gabriel stiffened, realizing he'd forgotten all about his wings. They sprouted from his shoulders in a twin spill of silvery-white. Tommy's fingers lightly stroked the fall of feathers, sending shivers rocketing through Gabriel's body. "That wasn't a dream I had about an angel saving me, was it?" Tommy's voice was soft with awe. "No, it wasn't." Tommy fell silent for a few moments. Gabriel watched him carefully, and it was clear he was trying to process the information, to come to terms with the fact he was in the presence of an otherworldly creature. When he spoke again, it was the last thing Gabriel expected to hear him say. "If you stay with me, will you lose your job? I mean, I don't want you to fall from grace or whatever." "Lose my…?" Gabriel repeated, arching a brow, perplexed. Laughter suddenly bubbled up, filling him with a joy he hadn't felt in an Age. "No, Tommy. I won't lose anything being with you. I would only gain, and I fear the only fall I'll experience will be one headfirst into love." "Oh." Tommy's voice was a whisper, his eyes growing even wider. His fingers ghosted over Gabriel's lips, burning them. "Kiss me? Please?" Mere inches from Gabriel's face, Tommy's lips were slightly parted, full and soft-looking. His breath was warm and sweet, intoxicating. Before Gabriel knew he was doing it, he leaned forward and pressed his lips gently against them. Feelings unlike any Gabriel had ever experienced before suddenly erupted within him. His entire body tightened, want and need fueling each other until they raged in his blood like an inferno. He groaned, and felt Tommy's tongue take advantage of his parted lips. Warm and velvety, it slipped


over his own, exploring his mouth eagerly, driving Gabriel past the point of no return. Their kiss ended only when their bodies demanded oxygen. "Take me upstairs, Gabriel," Tommy whispered. The hunger in his eyes matched that gnawing at Gabriel's soul, sharp and wild. Gabriel found he could no more deny Tommy than he could not take his next breath or still his heart from beating. Standing, Gabriel shivered his wings into invisibility and opened his arms.


Chapter Six Gabriel didn't remember climbing the stairs with Tommy, nor navigating the hallway or opening the door to his bedroom, but somehow, he found himself at the foot of his bed, staring into Tommy's eyes. He was unsure of how to proceed, of the protocol. In all honesty, he was unsure of what to do at all. Luckily for Gabriel, Tommy wasn't as innocent. He watched as Tommy peeled off his underwear, standing nude before him. Tommy’s body was lean and hard, his heavy cock listing toward his left hip, his balls swollen and covered in dark red fuzz. Slender fingers reached for the button of Gabriel's cargo shorts, and Gabriel felt it pop and heard the metallic groan of the zipper. Air cooled his flesh as Tommy pulled Gabriel's pants down, letting them pool at his ankles. Tommy’s hands followed the contours of Gabriel's body, skimming over his hips and waist, splaying over his chest, trailing fire in their wake. Every nerve in Gabriel's body seemed to sputter to life at the same time, tingling with anticipation, burning with need. "You're beautiful," Tommy whispered. "I want to see your wings, Gabriel. I want to make love to you the way you are, the way you really are." "Won't they get in the way?" Gabriel asked, blushing. He was admitting his ignorance, something he rarely had occasion to do before, and never to a human at all. "We'll work it out. Show me." Gabriel nodded, and shivered his wings into existence. Standing naked in the middle of the bedroom, he felt a chill as Tommy circled him like a lithe, lean jungle cat. Warm fingers brushed gently over his wings as hotter lips kissed a trail down the length of his spine between them. A warm, wet tongue tasted the sweat that pooled in the small of his back; hands cupped his ass, kneading the firm muscles. Gabriel let his head fall back, surrendering to Tommy's expertise. He felt cool air hit his most private area as Tommy separated his cheeks, and his knees nearly gave out when Tommy tasted him there. A hot, wet tongue tickled at Gabriel's hole, lapping, circling, and sending a spear of pleasure into Gabriel's balls. His wings snapped open to their full span, his back arching. A hand on his hip urged Gabriel to turn. Suddenly, without warning, Tommy took the head of Gabriel's cock into his mouth, sucking lightly. His fingers curled around the shaft, his other hand cupping Gabriel's balls. Nothing had prepared Gabriel for the intensity of what he was feeling. His body trembled as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through him, swelling, building upon one another until he feared he teetered on the very edge of madness. Then Tommy sucked harder and Gabriel lost his precarious footing, plummeting into the Abyss.


Freefalling, spiraling out of control, Gabriel cried out at the intensity of his orgasm, his entire body wracked by spasms of ecstasy. When it ended, it left him boneless, mindless, a statue of ice suddenly melted into gooey sludge. He fell backwards onto the bed, barely having the presence of mind to shudder his wings away before he crushed them under his own weight. Tommy climbed onto the bed and crawled over the length of Gabriel's body. He leaned down and kissed Gabriel softly, tenderly. Gabriel raised one hand, all he had the strength to move, and cupped Tommy’s cheek. "You had the Light of Heaven in your eyes when you came," Tommy whispered. "You were glowing, as if all the stars in the sky were twinkling just under your skin. I've never seen anything like it." He leaned down for another kiss, this one long and deep. "I want to be inside you, Gabriel." Gabriel's lips lifted in a small, sad smile. "You don't know what you ask of me, Tommy. It is an exceedingly rare thing with dire consequences. You need to understand what such an act would mean for an angel and his lover." "Tell me, although nothing will change my mind." "You would join our bodies, and therefore, our souls. You and I would be linked for all time, in this life and the next. I would be forever Earthbound, and you would never lie with anyone else, ever again. We would be mated." Tommy sat back on his heels. Gabriel could see he was stunned. He was certain it wasn't what Tommy expected to hear, but it was the truth. He watched him carefully, and saw the moment Tommy made his decision in his copper-and-butterscotch eyes. "So," Tommy asked in a husky, sensual voice, "will you marry me?" "Are you certain? There is no turning back once it is done." "Gabriel, there's no one else like you. You're an angel. You'd never lie to me, never cheat on me, never try to hurt me purposely. I'm only human. All I can promise is to try to make you happy, but yes, I'm certain." "Then take me," Gabriel whispered, feeling tears of joy begin to burn. He watched Tommy hop off the bed and scrounge through a nightstand drawer, fishing out a plastic tube. He returned to their bed swiftly, nudging Gabriel's legs apart and settling between them. Gabriel obeyed Tommy's request to bend his knees and lift them to his chest, exposing his hole to Tommy's slick, questing fingers. He felt one poking at his entrance, then slip inside his body, and his cock twitched in response. Another finger joined the first, slowly easing in and out of Gabriel's asshole, making him ready for what was to come.


"Are you ready for me?" Tommy asked, and all Gabriel could do was nod. He was fighting to contain his emotions; love, happiness, fear, and hungry anticipation warred with one another. Looking down across the flat plane of his belly, he watched Tommy guide his cock, felt its head press against his hole. It burned as his body stretched to accommodate Tommy's cock, and there was a feeling of incredible pressure and fullness as Tommy slipped deeper inside Gabriel's body. Slowly, he began to move, slick sounds matching his thrusts. Gabriel's penis woke, urged to life by the stroke of Tommy's cock against his prostate. Within moments, it was hard again, dribbles of precome wetting its head. Gabriel's hand found his shaft, stroking himself in time to Tommy's thrusts. Together, they moved as one. Gabriel watched Tommy's eyes widen, and knew he was feeling their souls touching and melding, just as Gabriel did. It felt like a white-hot cinder smoldering in the core of their beings, exploding into a firestorm that swept them both into orgasm. Gabriel's back arched from the bed and he cried out, his voice in harmony with Tommy's as they came. Forever linked by their souls, by their hearts. They were one. *** "What do you mean 'Gabriel isn't leaving’?" Cael bellowed. Gabriel looked at Tommy and rolled his eyes. They'd told Malak the good news that morning, after he and Tommy finally left their bed and went in search of sustenance. Now Malak was imparting the joyful word to Cael, and Cael was taking it exactly as Gabriel had thought he would. Badly. Feet thundered on the stairs a moment before Cael burst into the kitchen. He pointed a finger at Gabriel, his mouth hanging open, although no words came out. "Catching flies again, Demon? You know, I sort of like this new, silent you," Gabriel said, keeping a straight face. Tommy snickered and hid behind a newspaper. "You… you did this on purpose!" Cael yelled. "Yes, Cael. Tommy and I mated just to spite you." "Cael, will you calm down?" Malak appeared behind Cael, and wrapped his arms around his waist. Gabriel wasn't sure if it was to reassure Cael, or keep him from attacking Gabriel. "I thought you wanted the Horsemen released? Remember? All that stuff about men being beyond redemption?" Cael argued feebly.


"I've changed my mind," Gabriel said, looking at Tommy and smiling. "Malak was right. There are things on this planet worth saving." "Great. Well, can't you manage to save them in your own house?" Cael asked. "And miss out on torturing you for eternity? Not a chance," Gabriel said, laughing. "Get used to me, Demon. I'm Earthbound and loving it, and here to stay."


Healing Hands by Kiernan Kelly Pistol McKennon flew through the air head over heels, landing hard on his left hip. His tongue didn't have the time to taste the mouthful of dirt and bullshit he ate before he was scrambling to his feet, hip-hopping toward the chutes. Clowns ran interference, but the bull was smart, fast, and pissed off as all Hell. Dodging the colorfully-dressed cowboys, he zeroed in on Pistol like a heat-seeking missile. It was almost as if he knew that the clowns were only trying to distract him from his primary target. His thickskulled head, with its wide-spread, slightly curved horns, connected with Pistol's rear end, tossing him up into the air like a rag doll. Pistol hit hard again, and tried to scramble out of the way, his hip screaming louder than the crowd that filled the stands. He tasted the dirt again and rolled, looking up just in time to see two thousand pounds of pissed-off white fury twisting in the air above him. The animal's eyes blazed red, almost seeming to glow, and Pistol could swear the beast was grinning at him. Then Pistol's vision grayed, his mind mercifully shutting down an instant before the bull's hooves hit, and his last thought before the blissfully sweet darkness took him was that he didn't even make the eight seconds on the fucking bastard before getting bucked off. *** Raphael was out of his element, and knew it the instant his head stopped spinning and his vision cleared. He was unpracticed with entering the mortal plane, with its treacherous gravity and unstable elements like wind and rain. It was a miracle he hadn't landed on the top of some snowblown mountain, or in the middle of one of the all-too-numerous bodies of water that dotted the earth, and he gratefully sent a thought Heavenward for the helping hand. The only time Raphael had visited the world of Men had previously been in Sodom, on the city's last night of existence. Once the city and its entire populace were reduced to unrecognizable ashes, he'd returned home and never left it again. Until today. He hadn't wanted to come to earth. Raphael would have been content to remain in Heaven until the End of Days, and possibly longer, but Michael had other ideas. At the time, Raphael remembered thinking that, for an Archangel, Michael was something of a bully. That, of course, had been before Michael confided in Raphael the true reason he was being sent to earth. "I need you to go, Raphael. Only you can fix this," Michael said, turning his sky blue eyes at him.


Raphael gulped, trying to steel himself against the force of Michael's will, and failing. His voice sounded more suitable to a mouse than an Archangel. "Surely someone else, someone more qualified-" "There is no one more qualified. You're the Healer among us. Isn't that your gift, Raphael?" Damn, Raphael thought, and immediately said a silent word of contrition for swearing. Michael was right, as usual. Michael was the warrior. Gabriel was the musician and a scrappy fighter in his own right. Raphael was the embodiment of peace, the healer. Even in Sodom, he hadn't cast a single fireball. His job had been to collect the souls of the children, the feeble-minded, and the few other true innocents who'd dwelled in the city, and see them safely away before the horror began. Michael looked smug. He knew he'd won, and in that moment, Raphael knew it, too. Raphael would obey. He always did, no matter what was asked of him. True, nothing had ever been requested of him besides healing, whether it was of the body, mind, or soul, but still, he never said no. He just wasn't strong enough to pit his will against Michael's. In short, Raphael was an angelic milquetoast. "What exactly is my task?" Raphael asked in a small voice, after a moment of unbearable silence under the intensity of Michael's unwavering stare. "You're to find a man named Pistol McKennon. He's been gravely injured, and hovers at this very moment between life and death. We believe Lucifer has sent Thanatos to collect the human's soul. We must not allow this to happen, Raphael. It is imperative that you heal him and save him from the Pits." The news shocked Raphael and he shuddered. Thanatos was rarely allowed out of Hell. He... it… was the very embodiment of death. He was far too unpredictable, too apt to draw unwanted attention, as likely as not to cause the death of thousands in his quest to collect a single soul. Not even Lucifer could control him completely. It was believed he had gone rogue once before, and the result was a plague of such deadly proportions that it had decimated three-quarters of the earth's population. How evil must this human be for Lucifer to deem his soul worthy of releasing Hell's foulest hound? Moreover, who was this man that Michael would seek to save him? "Why? What's so special about this human that Lucifer would go to such extremes? All Men die eventually, Michael. It's the human condition. If this one is sinful enough to warrant the Pits, then to Hell he shall go. Why would Lucifer send Thanatos? Moreover, why do you wish to try to thwart him?" For the first time, Raphael saw a look of chagrin color Michael's features. He remained silent, looking away, avoiding eye contact. He almost looked embarrassed, and for Michael, a creature of supreme confidence, it was a first. "Michael?"


"He's… of my blood, Raphael," Michael replied in a voice so soft that Raphael had to strain to hear him. Raphael was stunned. Angels rarely sired half-human progeny, although it wasn't completely unheard of. Unions conceived in love were not frowned upon by Heaven, and once consummated, were eternal. Raphael remembered the most recent examples. Malak, the young Archangel who was wounded in Sodom, had fallen in love -- with a demon, no less. Word had reached Raphael that Gabriel had taken a human mate on his recent trip to Earth. Gabriel shocked Raphael even more than Malak had -- Gabriel wasn't known to be subject to the warm fuzzies. Whatever human had captured Gabriel's heart must be unique, indeed. "You sired a nephilim? Do you love her, Michael?" Raphael asked. "Where is she? How is it I've never seen nor heard of her before now?" An angel who bonded with a human was bound to the earthly plane until the human's death, at which point, their union continued in Heaven. "No, Raphael. I do not. I never did. It was an experiment, and a mistake. Before you think to ask why, my reasons were my own, and I have done penance for my transgression," Michael said. "I severed my bond to her." He spoke through gritted teeth, his brow furrowed. That tidbit shocked Raphael even more than Michael's confession of siring a nephilim. Heavenly annulments for angels were few and far between. As a matter of fact, Michael's was the only one Raphael had ever heard being granted before. Dissolution of such a bond would be perceived as a sin. Raphael could only imagine the penance for it. Michael's was the highest rank of angel, Arch or otherwise. For him to fall from grace was unthinkable. Michael spoke, drawing Raphael's attention again. "Lucifer knows, Raphael. He learned of my secret almost too late. I held hopes my line would die out before he heard of them. A scroll was discovered recently near the Dead Sea, and from it he learned I sired a line of nephilim. That's why he's released Thanatos. To have angelic blood in Hell, to have my blood, no matter how many generations have diluted it, would be a boon for Lucifer unlike any before. He would use the very last of my progeny to shame Heaven, to flaunt my sins in the world. The Church would fall, and hope would fail. The earth would be ripe for invasion. Lucifer and the denizens of Hell would sweep over the earth like a fetid wind. The Four Horsemen would see it as the End." "The Horsemen!" The thought was almost too horrible to contemplate. Raphael knew full well they'd nearly been released before, and stopped by an unlikely pair -- Malak and Cael, the angel and demon lovers. All of Heaven had held its collective breath, praying they would succeed. "Yes. With the power of my blood fueling Lucifer's armies, we could not vanquish them. The Horsemen would initiate Armageddon, Raphael. Their release would be unavoidable." Raphael nodded. Angelic blood was incredibly potent, and Archangel blood infinitely more so, but Michael's blood would be of incalculable power.


"It shames me to tell you that my progeny has not led an exemplary life. Worse than any of the trivial sins he has committed is the fact his heart has been broken so badly it's poisoned him against love. He's bitter and angry, Raphael, and has lost the will to live. If he dies, hope for the world dies with him because he'll descend into the Pits, with or without Thanatos' help. Lucifer released Thanatos only to hurry the inevitable along. "You are to go to earth, find my spawn and heal his body, but you must do more for me, Raphael. You must heal his mind and heart as well, so that when he does die, he will come home. My line will end with him, and the world will be safe." There was none of the tone of imperial command in his voice that Raphael had come to associate with Michael. He was asking, almost begging for Raphael's help, despite his rigid posture and cool blue eyes. Raphael couldn't refuse. "All right, Michael. I'll go." Raphael saw relief color Michael's handsome features as he nodded and touched his fist to his heart briefly in salute. Raphael watched Michael hold up his hand, and a thin crimson line snaked across his palm, blood beading to the surface. He offered his hand to Raphael, who paused only a moment before touching a finger to it. Raphael placed the dab of Michael's blood on his tongue. Once tasted, it would never be forgotten. Michael's essence suffused the very core of Raphael's body; he would be able to detect the tiniest trace of it anywhere on earth. It would allow him to find Michael's progeny, following the scent like a bloodhound on the trail. "Thank you, Raphael," Michael said softly. "Go now, before it's too late." Raphael had gone, and now found himself victim of the all too human sensations of nausea and vertigo. Grabbing his midsection, he bent over and threw up bitter bile. "Ugh!" Raphael looked up without straightening. His stomach was like a clenched fist, tight and unforgiving. He was afraid to move lest he repeat the entire vile experience. The voice belonged to a tall, blond man, as handsome as any angel ever to tread past Heaven's pearly gates. Another man stood next to him, as dark as the first was fair, but no less beautiful. Gabriel recognized the second man immediately. "Malak? What are you doing here?" he gasped. "Watching you upchuck all over my brand new Reeboks, that's what," the blond man said. "Cael! Be nice. Poor Raphael couldn't help it," Malak said.


Ah, so the blond is Malak's demon-lover. Be fair, Raphael immediately chastised himself, he's a demon no more. He earned the forgiveness of Heaven for his part in stopping the Horsemen. "My apologies," he croaked. Another cramp twisted his gut, forcing him to concentrate on keeping his internal organs where they belonged, and not spray them over the toes of Cael's shoes. Why was it that he could heal anyone and anything but himself? He felt Malak's warm hand on the back of his neck. It was soothing and gentle, like the angel himself. "Why are you here?" Raphael repeated, finally finding the strength to stand upright. "Michael asked us to meet you," Malak said. "Are you okay now?" "Yes. I'd forgotten how uncomfortable the earthly plane can be," Raphael said, finding a smile. "Curious minds want to know," Cael said. "Michael told us to meet you, but not why you were coming in the first place." "I'm afraid I cannot tell you, if he did not," Raphael replied. "It is Michael's story to tell, not mine." He watched Malak and Cael exchange a confused look, and didn't blame them if they felt slighted because Michael didn't trust them with the truth behind Raphael's visit. Michael must have reason not to share, and Raphael only hoped it wasn't pride that held his tongue. Pride was another of the Seven Deadly Sins, and Michael was already guilty of one of them -- lust. Another fall from grace and he might tumble too far to recover this time. "Then how are we supposed to help you?" Cael asked. Raphael smiled kindly. "You cannot. I must find my own way, but I thank you for your offer." Cael turned toward Malak, jerking his thumb at Raphael. "Find his own way? Him? Here? Is he kidding? He won't last a minute on his own." There was sarcasm in his voice, but no malice. The former demon had indeed come a long way since freeing himself from the Pit. No true denizen of Hell would be so concerned over the fate of an angel. Raphael noticed that, this time, Malak did not shush him. "Cael is right, Raphael. You haven't been on earth in over three millennia! Things have changed drastically down here," Malak said. "Listen to Malak," Cael chimed in. "You thought Sodom was bad? This is Vegas, Raphael. Sodom was a nunnery compared to this place." Raphael nodded his head. The stench of sin had hit him along with the earth's gravity, contributing to his violent retching. It was tolerable now, but still foul. Lifting his head, he sniffed delicately at the air. There, under the reek of violence and greed, was something else,


something subtle and surprisingly alluring. It smelled like Michael and yet not. His progeny was here, in this city of the wicked. "I shall be fine. Thank you again for your concern," Raphael said, embracing first Malak and then Cael. He felt their love for each other, strong and unwavering, and was glad for them. "I don't feel right about this, Raphael. Leaving you here, I mean," Malak said. He held out a slim, rectangular object. "Here, take my cell phone. Press this button, and it'll dial Cael's phone. It’s a way for you to get hold of us quickly, if you need us." Raphael accepted the cell phone, examining it curiously. It was slender and silver, with small markings on tiny buttons. He smelled it, and shook it next to his ear. "This is a magical device?" Malak and Cael laughed. "No, just modern technology. Use it if you need to talk to us, Raphael," Malak said. "I will. Thank you." "One thing you must always remember," Malak continued, "is to hide your wings. Humans don't have them, and you must keep your identity a secret." "Why?" Raphael asked, cocking his head in confusion. They'd never had to hide before. Humans used to consider themselves blessed if they saw an angel -- unless said angel came bearing fire and brimstone, of course. "It's not like it used to be down here, Raphael. Humans are much more likely to shoot first and ask questions later. They'll think you're some sort of oddity, a freak. They'd lock you up and try to dissect you," Cael said. "I will remember," Raphael said, although he still thought it unnecessary. "We may not be able to help you, but we can do this much," Cael said, handing Raphael a neat bundle of clothing. "That robe you're wearing will make you stick out among the humans like a hedgehog at a peacock convention. Duck behind those bushes and change. We'll stand guard until you're finished." They were so sweet and thoughtful that Raphael felt he couldn't say no again. He took the clothes and did as they'd requested. It was a struggle, though. At what point in the past three thousand years did clothing get so complicated? Moreover, why? Robes were simpler, covered more flesh, and were comfortable as well as practical. Perhaps Malak and Cael had misjudged his size. The clothing fit him like a second skin. When he emerged from behind the bushes, Cael rolled his eyes and snorted, and Malak grinned. "Dude," Cael said, shaking his head, "You've got everything on half-ass backwards. Come here," he said, pulling Raphael by the arm. He led Raphael behind the bushes again, stripping off the


clothing and re-dressing him. "That's better," he said when he was finished. "Oh, a word to the wise, Raphael. That thing between your legs is called a penis and this is a zipper." He pointed to the metal fastener. "The two don't play nicely together, so be careful." Raphael didn't have the heart to tell him the clothing still felt restrictive and uncomfortable. Instead, he refrained from saying anything and just smiled. As Cael and Malak walked away, Raphael heard Cael mutter, "An angel loose in Vegas! I give him until midnight before he calls... or falls." Raphael sincerely hoped Cael was wrong. By midnight, he hoped to have found Michael's progeny, healed him, and be back in Heaven. Everything would go back to normal, and Raphael would never need worry about gravity or zippers again. Turning in the opposite direction Malak and Cael had gone, he again sniffed the air. Catching the scent of Michael's kin, he followed it.


Chapter Two It was a place of healing!

The moment Raphael walked past the wide glass doors he recognized the soothing smell of

comfort overlaying the bitterness of pain. It was a familiar scent and it calmed him. It also whet

his curiosity; his head swiveled from left to right as he walked through the gleaming white and

pale green hallways. So much had changed since last he'd been on earth! Gone were the filthy

cesspools where well-meaning but sadly incompetent men sought to heal their fellows by cruel

and barbaric methods that often did more damage than the original illness. In their place were

cleanliness, bright, sunlit rooms, and gleaming metal equipment.

As much as Raphael would have liked to explore further, he had a task -- a very important one -that he needed to attend to. Somewhere in the huge, multi-floored building was Michael's

nephilim, in pain, dying. Raphael could smell how close the man lay to death in the olfactory

trail he'd been following.

He scented the air again. The smell was stronger, closer than before. Raphael followed his nose

through a door and up two flights of stairs. Yes, he was near, very close now. He hurried on,

oblivious to the sideways glances of people, mostly women dressed in white.

There. On the other side of a nondescript wooden door was the source of the scent. Taking a

calming breath, summoning his energy in preparation of the healing he would perform, Raphael

pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

He immediately recoiled. The stench of Hell permeated the room, thick and cloying. His gaze

darted from corner to corner, but saw nothing except the slim body lying on the bed. The smell

of evil didn't emanate from him; instead, it clung to him like a shroud. It was immediately

apparent to Raphael that the man had had a close brush with someone of incredible malevolence,

and wondered if that someone was Thanatos. It seemed likely, although how a mere mortal -angelic blood or not -- had escaped from Thanatos was beyond Raphael's ken.

Waves of incredible pain wafted from the man. Although his senses were dulled by whatever

medicinal remedies the human healers had given him, the agony was so severe it repeatedly

pulled him back from the depths of unconsciousness.

The man's pain gave wings to Raphael's feet, and he hurried to the bed. His first impression was

that Michael's nephilim was not exceptionally tall, as was expected for half-angel, half-human

progeny. Then again, many generations had passed since Michael's first child was born, more

than enough to dilute the line.

Tousled blond hair, oily with sweat, clung to his scalp. His face was strained, even in his sleep,

his forehead beaded with moisture. Attractive, for a human, Raphael thought, beautiful, really.

His angelic ancestry showed in his fine bone structure, long golden lashes, and full, Cupid's bow

lips, despite the horrid bruises that covered much of his face and body. Raphael realized with a

start that his body was reacting to the man's beauty, hardening, and he blushed with shame. He


scolded himself for having impure thoughts, particularly when the man was in pain. Lust, Raphael. Remember? It’s what got all of us into this mess in the first place. Pistol, he remembered Michael calling his nephilim. Pistol McKennon, an odd name certainly, but somehow suitable, nonetheless. Well, Pistol McKennon, let's get started. He refocused, starting small, with the gashes that laced Pistol's cheek. Raphael took a closer look, curious about the modern methods of healing. He could see tiny, black knots that held the wounds closed. The healers had sewn the man's skin like a tailor might fashion a robe. Amazing, ingenious, and quite effective, he realized. He reached out and gently touched the tips of his fingers to the wound. Closing his eyes, he channeled his energy through his hand into the wound. He felt the familiar crackle of it as it coursed through his veins, smelled the slight odor of ozone it produced. The wound glowed blue-white briefly, and when it faded, the skin was whole and unmarked. Even the tiny black knots had been pushed free, lying like dead ants on Pistol's face. Raphael smiled, carefully flicking them away. Smooth and golden, free from discoloration, there was no sign that Pistol's skin had ever been damaged. Good, Raphael thought, now for the larger, more serious injuries. He held both hands out, palms down, and slowly moved them over Pistol's body, beginning at his head and continuing along until they reached his toes. He has several broken bones, Raphael thought, sorting through the information he'd garnered from his holistic examination. The most serious are his head and spine -- his skull is fractured, his brain damaged, and there are several cracks in his vertebrae. His left hip is broken also, and one of his lungs has been punctured by a rib. There are other internal injuries, and a break in his thigh bone. Several toes are broken, as well. It was only the machinery attached to him that kept him alive, Raphael realized. Raphael shuddered to think of the pain Pistol must have felt, and prayed he had not awoken completely since his injuries occurred. Even now, asleep, he moaned from it. What had done this to him? One of those fast-moving, brightly colored mechanical things Raphael had seen racing up and down the street while following Michael's scent trail? Or had it been something more Hellish? The reek of evil in the room seemed to support the second option. Shaking his head to clear it, Raphael again summoned his energy. This time he called forth much more power than before, drawing it from deep within his core until blue sparks sizzled and crackled like miniature lightning bolts from his fingertips. He began with Pistol's skull, laying his hands gently on the top of his head. Working slowly, he progressed down the entire length of Pistol's body, healing each break, and every gash and scrape, painstakingly reconnecting muscle tissue, tendons, ligaments, and nerves as he went. His fingers left a trail of slowly fading, shimmering blue in their wake. Hoses and wires popped free, one tube sliding itself from out of Pistol's throat. Pistol no longer needed them.


Raphael felt drained, but amazingly good, too. He'd forgotten how wonderful it was to use his gifts. It had been a very long time, indeed. Too long, he realized. "Where am I, and who the Hell are you?" Raphael blinked, his eyes meeting Pistol's. They were sky blue, just like Michael's, clear and intelligent, another mark of Pistol's angelic genealogy. Even the way Pistol stared at him, gaze unwavering, was reminiscent of Michael. "It does not matter who I am, but rest assured I am not from the Pits. You are healed," he added with a smile. "Huh?" Pistol looked confused, then frowned. "Where am I?" He sat up, looking around. "Is this a hospital? Why am I here?" A hospital, Raphael thought. That's what humans call their places of healing. "Yes. You were gravely injured, but you have been healed." Pistol groaned and his face paled visibly. "Oh, man. Lucifer! The bastard came down hard on me, didn't he?" "I do not believe it was Lucifer, himself, who did this. He rarely dirties his hands with menial labor. I think it was Thanatos who attacked you, although in what form, I cannot say." Pistol shook his head. "Who? No, I remember drawing Lucifer. Big white bull, and as mean a motherfucker as you'll find on the circuit." Raphael winced at the expletive. "Bull?" he squeaked, hoping that he hadn't healed Pistol only for his mouth to condemn him to Hell anyway. "Yeah. I'm a bull-rider. Didn't they tell you that when they brought me in here? I got freighttrained by a two-thousand pound piece of pissed-off prime rib." Had Thanatos taken the form of a beast? If Pistol rode on the backs of bulls -- Raphael couldn’t imagine why he would, since oxen, donkeys, camels, and horses, even elephants, were much more cooperative methods of transportation -- it would be an easy way to kill him. Why Thanatos would announce himself as Lucifer was another question. There are too many mysteries here, Raphael thought, and was struck by a sudden yearning for home, where everything was peaceful and uncomplicated. "Feel pretty good, though," Pistol said. He was testing his arms, flexing his fingers and toes. "Don't feel like I broke nothing. Damn lucky, if you ask me." Raphael frowned. "You are mistaken. You were seriously injured. You broke many bones, had a brain injury. You were near death. I healed you." "Yeah, so you said," Pistol replied, although his tone said he didn't believe a word of it.


He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Raphael realized Pistol was naked and looked away, but he couldn't help noticing Pistol's strongly-muscled physique. He felt his cheeks heat, the image of Pistol's impressive, if flaccid, penis burned into his mind's eye. "It is true, Pistol McKennon. You must be careful not to overtax yourself for some time. My healing powers are more than adequate, but the human body is notoriously frail and-" "Healing powers? You sure do talk strange for a doctor." It was time to set the man straight, and explain the danger he was in. If Thanatos was indeed on the loose and charged by Lucifer with Pistol's demise, he wouldn't stop until he fulfilled his purpose. "I am Raphael, an Arch-" Suddenly, the door exploded with a tremendous crash, splinters of pale wood forming deadly arrows. The windows imploded at the same time, shards of glass like glacial daggers zinging toward the bed. Raphael reacted instinctively, pushing Pistol back onto the bed and throwing himself on top of him. The reek of evil grew so thick that Raphael could barely breathe. Thanatos! He was coming to finish what he'd started. Raphael didn't take the time to think -- he reacted. He stood up and tried to unfurl his wings. "Damn this clothing!" he yelled, not realizing he'd sworn. He took hold of the collar of his shirt and shredded it in his powerful hands, discarding the tattered remains. He shed his pants just as quickly, giving no mind to the dangers of zippers. Naked, he unfurled his wings to their full impressive span. "Whoa! What was that? A bomb?" Pistol screamed, popping off the bed. He froze, gaping at Raphael. "Are those… wings? What the Hell are you?" Raphael ignored him. He scooped Pistol up into his arms as if the man weighed no more than a rag doll, and headed toward the broken windows. Bending his knees, he gave a hard push and launched through the opening. A few strong flaps of his wings took them high into the sky, where the clouds would hide them. He ignored Pistols screams, concentrating solely on putting as much distance between them and whatever had been about to come into the room. He had no doubt it was Thanatos. What he couldn't ignore was Pistol's incessant struggling, not if Raphael didn't want to do Thanatos' job for him by dropping Pistol and allowing him to plummet to his death. "Sleep," he commanded Pistol, and was rewarded by Pistol instantly growing limp in his arms. He didn't consciously take direction, but followed the sun's warm rays for hours, watching it turn the western sky orange and red. When he heard the thunderous sound of crashing water, he


headed toward it. Water nourished the earth. Life came forth from water, and water nurtured it. Hell knew only fire and ice, not the soothing, healing silk of the sea. The smell of salt and fish would mask their trail from Thanatos, at least for a while. He hoped.


Chapter Three Raphael alighted on a smooth, sugar-sand beach, near where the blue-green waves of the Pacific kissed the shore. He lay Pistol down on the sand and sat next to him. Raphael was exhausted -he hadn't flown so long or so far in three millennia. He must have nodded off, because his head jerked up, startled by the sound of Pistol's voice. It was high-pitched with fright and excessively loud, and screaming in Raphael's sensitive ear. "What in the blue fuck just happened? Is that the fucking ocean? Where are we? How did we get here?" Raphael felt his ears burn from both the volume and the profanity. "Please, Pistol, don't shout. My hearing is most acute. Yes, it is the ocean, but I do not know where, exactly, it is except to say that I flew west from the hospital." "Are you telling me we're in California? You kidnapped me? How the hell did you get me on a plane without waking me up? What kind of fucking doctor are you?" He was scrambling away from Raphael, crab-crawling through the sand. "Please, be calm, Pistol. I told you before that I am not a doctor. My name is Raphael, and I am an Archangel." "Yeah? An Archangel. Okay. Good for you. Glad to hear it," Pistol said, standing up. He brushed the sand from his naked body. "You're fucking nuts, dude. Just stay away from me. Where the Hell are my clothes?" "I am an angel! Do you not remember flying out of the hospital window?" Raphael insisted, hearing the disbelief in Pistol's voice. "I am the Archangel Raphael, the Healer, the Comforter." "The Comforter, huh? Sounds like you're a goddamn quilt. Either you're nuttier than a squirrel in a peanut factory, or I am. Either way, I'm out of here. I have to get to a phone and call the rodeo officials. Now, I'm going to ask you again, real nice… where the fuck are my clothes?" "Back in the hospital room would be my guess. You were naked when I arrived. I am sorry, Pistol, but I cannot allow you to leave. You must listen to me," Raphael said firmly, standing up. He couldn't allow Pistol to leave. Thanatos would find him and kill him. He faced Pistol with only a few yards separating them. "Perhaps the stress of flight has damaged your memory of me. Please allow me to remind you." Raphael stood tall and looked down his nose at Pistol. In truth, he was more than a little annoyed that the human hadn't believed him. He shimmered his wings into existence again, spreading them out to their full span. Twice as wide as he was tall, they were two impressive spills of pristine white, gossamer feathers, casting long, twin shadows across the sand.


Pistol's face went slack, his jaw falling open and his eyes widening until the white completely encircled his bright blue irises. The color bleached out of his cheeks, and he began to utter soft, strangling noises, as if his tongue were as shocked as the rest of him. "You… wings… you're…" "…an Archangel. I told you. Please, Pistol, sit down and let us discuss this. You need rest, and I have much to tell you about what's happened, about who you are." Pistol sat, or rather, his legs gave out and he thudded into the sand on his behind, his eyes wide and bulging. His mouth opened and closed a few times, reminding Raphael of a fish gulping for air. Raphael sighed and relaxed his wings, folding them back into a more comfortable position, and took a seat on the warm sand across from Pistol. "Your story begins centuries ago. The Archangel Michael took a human lover. I have not been told the details, only that he sired a child upon the woman. You are a direct descendant of that child. Angelic blood flows in your veins, Pistol McKennon." He saw Pistol's mind struggling to process the information. Raphael understood how shocked he felt. After all, not everyone was gifted with a visit from an Archangel, and fewer yet were presented with the news that they, themselves, were descended from an angelic sire. When Pistol finally spoke, it was to deny everything. "You got the wrong fella, mister. I'm no angel. Hell, I'm a tried and true sinner, and have been for as long as I can remember. I wasn't even a good kid -- always mouthing off to my folks, and such. I swear like a sailor, screw anything that'll hold still long enough, and I cheat at cards." Raphael looked hard into Pistol's sky blue eyes. What was said about the eyes was true, of course -- they were the windows to the soul. Through Pistol's eyes, Raphael saw flashes of Pistol's life. A sad and abusive home life led to his departure at an early age. The discovery that he preferred male lovers and the years spent first denying it, then hiding it from everyone around him. The pain of heartbreak, when a man he loved more than life itself betrayed him with another. The thick, impenetrable walls Pistol erected around his heart afterwards, walls that kept him from loving anyone else, including himself, walls that kept the entire world at a safe distance. In only a few seconds, Raphael knew more about Pistol McKennon than anyone else on earth, and felt his own heart fill with sympathy for the hard life the man had led. Raphael closed his eyes briefly under the assault of Pistol's pain; it tore at Raphael as if it were his own. The healer in him wanted to cradle Pistol in his arms, hold him until he could sooth away the hurt that still hammered at Pistol’s soul. "I am not mistaken, Pistol. I can smell your ancestry on you -- it permeates your core, your very essence. Your forebear is the Archangel Michael, and therein lays the problem. Michael's blood, even in the trace amounts that flow through your veins, is potent and powerful. Lucifer has learned of you, of your connection to Heaven, and wants that power. With it, he will initiate the End of Days, and no one will be able to stop him."


Pistol's eyes clouded, his brows knitting in a frown. "Lucifer? You mean Satan? I don't believe in Hell," he said, and Raphael nearly laughed at the authoritative tone in his voice, and would have had the situation not been so serious. "It matters not what you believe, Pistol, because Hell believes in you. Lucifer has gone to extreme measures to capture your soul. He has unleashed Thanatos, the very embodiment of death." "Come on. Do you really expect me to believe all this horseshit?" Raphael gently fanned his wings, the breeze they caused cooling his skin and bringing Pistol's attention back to them. Pistol watched them, then lowered his face and rubbed it with both hands. He fell silent for a moment then looked back at Raphael. "Okay, suppose I believe you. What am I supposed to do now?" "Hide." "Hide? That's your answer? You pop into my life, kidnap me, tell me in one breath that I'm descended from a fucking angel and that Lucifer -- Satan, himself -- put out a contract on my life, and then the best advice you can give me is to tell me to hide? Well, shit on that, partner! I'm going to buy me the biggest gun I can find, and if this Thanatos shows up, I'll put so many holes in his hide he'll look like a goddamn slice of Swiss cheese." This time Raphael did laugh. He couldn't help it. For all his sinning and worldly ways, for all his vulgar language and posturing, Pistol was adorably naïve. "How does one kill death, Pistol?" he asked. "He nearly destroyed you once already. I believe he was inside the bull that nearly killed you. If it was not for Michael sending me to you, he would have succeeded." "Whoa… if'n I'm his kin, then why didn't Michael come himself? Why send you?" "Michael is a warrior. I am a healer. You needed healing," Raphael said simply. Pistol smirked. "So, can't Michael stop this Thana-whatever?" "Thanatos, and no. He cannot. There is only one person who can defeat him, and that is you, Pistol." "You just said I can't kill him! You told me to hide!" "I know I did, and no, you can't kill him. But you can stop him and send him back to Hell, providing you have the proper weapon. Unfortunately, you do not have that weapon, and therefore your only chance is to hide." "What weapon are you talking about? A bazooka? A cannon? A nuclear-fucking-bomb?"


Raphael smiled softly. "No, there is no weapon of man that can defeat him. The only thing that can is love." Pistol snorted derisively. "Love? Are you kidding?" "No, I am not. Love -- true love -- is the most powerful thing in the universe, Pistol. Nothing in Heaven or Hell can stand against it." "Well, that's just fucking great! Where am I supposed to find love, huh? It ain't like they sell it by the boxful down at the local Piggly Wiggly." "It's all around you, Pistol. That's another reason I was sent -- to heal your heart. You were hurt badly, weren't you?" Raphael said gently. "A man by the name of Thomas broke your heart, and it has never healed." Raphael realized it was the wrong thing to say. It was enough to drive Pistol to his feet again. Raphael could see every muscle in his body tense, bunching under his skin. "Who told you about him? "No one told me. I saw the marks he carved on your soul. They are deep gouges that have never mended, scars that pain you still." Pistol's eyes narrowed. "You can do that? See into my soul?" "Yes." "Well, knock it the fuck off. My soul is my business. Stay out of it," Pistol growled. Raphael smiled. "I have no need to look again. I have already seen everything I needed to know about you. You use venomous language and anger as a weapon, Pistol. You brandish it, keeping everyone around you at arm's length. If you wish to defeat Thanatos, you must let someone into your heart. You must learn to trust, to love again." "Yeah? Well then, I'm good and truly fucked, ain't I? It doesn't look like there's anybody around here looking to get into my shorts, now does it?" Pistol said sarcastically, gesturing toward the empty beach. "Love has nothing to do with sex," Raphael said firmly, shaking his head. "Oh, Lordy… you've been snorting clouds and shitting halos for too long, angel. There ain't no difference between the two." Raphael blinked, his mouth dropping open. Never once, since the very Beginning, had anyone spoken to him in that manner before. He bit back the retort that was his first reaction -- no sense


adding to the sins he'd been racking up since the moment he first met Pistol McKennon -- and opted for patience. It was a virtue, after all. "I can assure you that there is most definitely a difference. Love is pure, unselfish. It is-" "Hogwash." Pistol's jaw was set stubbornly, but one pale eyebrow cocked and he studied Raphael silently for a moment. Then he laughed. "Wait a second… you ain't never had sex, have you? Shit, I can spot a virgin a mile away. Ain't you a fine one to talk about love and pretending to be an expert on it all, when you're as lily white as those wings you got growing back there?" Raphael felt his cheeks burn and he looked away. It was true, of course. "Just because I have never sampled the pleasures of the flesh doesn't mean I don't know anything about love, Pistol. I told you they are two separate entities." He felt Pistol's eyes on him, the touch of his gaze heating Raphael's skin, making his body harden. A strange yearning bubbled up; Raphael found it difficult to breathe for the unfamiliar stirrings Pistol's attention created in him. "I don't get it. You're easy enough on the eyes. Right pretty, even with them wings. How is it that nobody's made a move on you before? It ain't like you can't do the deed. I can see all your parts are in working order." He looked pointedly at Raphael's groin. Suddenly shy, Raphael cupped his hands around himself, shielding his penis from Pistol's eyes. It was hard and uncomfortable, aching for something Raphael couldn't name, something he felt instinctively that Pistol could give him, and it made his cheeks burn hotter knowing Pistol knew it, too. "Stop that. We are talking about you, not me." "We're talking about sex, partner, and that takes two people, unless you're jacking off." "We're talking about love!" Raphael argued, his eyes widening as Pistol scooted closer to him. He fought the urge to flee, to take to the skies and put as much distance between Pistol and himself as he could. He settled for shifting a few inches to the right. A small, strangled moan rasped Raphael's throat as he watched Pistol's hand fall to his lap, fingers brushing along the length of flesh thickening against the man’s inner thighs. "T-that's a sin. Touching yourself. Don't." "Bullshit. That's what God gave us these here parts for. They ain't just for taking a leak, angel." Pistol's fingers wrapped around his length and pulled at the flesh. "If'n He didn't want us using them, He wouldn't have made it feel so good." Raphael’s penis twitch under his cupped hands, harder yet, and leaking some sort of fluid. His hand trembled over it involuntarily, sending a bolt of pleasure ripping into his belly. "Oh, Lord! Please stop, Pistol…"


"You're the one who started this. You want to give advice, well then, you need to know what you're talking about," Pistol said, grinning wickedly at Raphael. He shifted his body closer, and this time Raphael couldn't force himself to move away. Long, slender fingers, calloused and rough, reached out toward Raphael, lightly skimming the smooth skin of his chest. They found a nipple, worrying at it, sending shivers of an unnamable need tripping down Raphael's spine directly into his sac. His entire body grew hypersensitive; he could feel every grain of sand where they scratched his bottom and legs, the heat from Pistol's body against his skin, but mostly, the hand that teased his nipple unmercifully. ”Th-Thanatos… you… we must focus on how we are to keep you alive…" To Raphael's chagrin, Pistol ignored him and raised his hand from Raphael's chest to his lips, his thumb lightly rubbing over them. "You got such a pretty mouth, angel," he breathed, leaning in even closer. Raphael could feel warm breath ghosting over his cheeks. "So pretty. Wanna taste…" Raphael gasped, but any noise he might have made was silenced by Pistol's lips covering his. Pistol's mouth was deliciously warm and soft, his tongue wet as it probed between Raphael's lips, seeking entrance. Unable to stop himself -- and in all honesty, not really trying very hard to resist -- Raphael opened for him. Pistol kissed him fervently, as if desperate to taste every inch of Raphael's mouth, thoroughly and expertly probing his teeth, palate, and tongue. Their mouths made soft, wet sounds that sent ripples along Raphael's skin and made him hungry for more of what Pistol was willing to teach him. This was a lesson, Raphael told himself, a learning experience. Pistol was right -- he needed to learn all he could in order to give sage advice, and since he knew nothing of sex, this was Raphael's golden opportunity to become scholarly on the subject. They were safe for the time being -- they'd left Thanatos far behind in the city of Vegas. He refused to listen to the small voice in his head that told him he was making excuses. His body wanted this, needed it, was thrumming for Pistol's touch. Pistol pulled away all too soon, in Raphael's opinion. Surely there was more to this sex business than kissing! His body was on fire, aching with a need so great that when Pistol's lips left his, tears formed in his eyes. "I can't… I want… please…" For the first time since Raphael met Pistol, he seemed at a loss for words. Pistol's sapphire blue eyes were wide, and in them Raphael saw a reflection of the need he was feeling himself. Was there nothing else to it besides a kiss? Then why did Raphael still feel such a yearning hunger? "You're right. We can't -- not here. The sand will rub us raw," Pistol whispered. "Can you take us somewhere else? Somewhere… softer?"


A wave of relief washed over Raphael. There was more! Perhaps if he took them elsewhere, Pistol would show Raphael how to rid himself of the torturous ache that throbbed deeply inside his body. Besides, he rationalized, the more miles they put between themselves and Thanatos, the better. He nodded and stood up, unfurling his wings. When he spread his arms, Pistol walked into his embrace, his hard cock nestling perfectly against Raphael's. "W-Where?" Raphael asked, finding it difficult to speak with every inch of Pistol's naked flesh pressed to his own. "Anywhere that don't have this fucking sand," Pistol replied. He lifted his head and nipped at the delicate flesh under Raphael's jaw, making Raphael whimper.


Chapter Four Desperate to find somewhere, anywhere, that met Pistol's description, Raphael gathered his legs under him and launched into the sky, flying northeast, away from the water. He swept low over the land, just over the tops of the trees that edged the beach. Perhaps no more than a half-hour later -- although each passing minute felt like days to him, as his body cried out for a nameless something he knew Pistol would give him -- he spotted a sheltered valley field, thick with soft grass and flowers. As soon as their feet touched the lush valley floor, Pistol's mouth sought Raphael's again. This time, his kiss was hard and hungry, drawing a roaring wave of desire from the core of Raphael's being. They tumbled to the ground, Pistol's body wrapping around Raphael's. "I'm going to fuck you, angel," Pistol whispered. His cock dug into Raphael's belly, as if looking for way inside him. "You ready for me?" "Show me, Pistol. Teach me," Raphael whispered. He didn't understand what was coming, only that he needed it, that every fiber in his being was crying out for it. Pistol's knees nudged Raphael's legs apart; he willingly spread them wantonly. He watched through hooded eyes as Pistol spat into his hand and rubbed his saliva over the head of his cock. To Raphael's astonishment, Pistol centered himself between Raphael's legs, lifting them to his shoulders. Then there was pain tempered by a feeling of fullness, of burning and stretching as Pistol slid his cock into the tiny, tight entrance between Raphael's legs. He understood. With Pistol's body connected to his physically, Raphael finally understood everything. Waves of desire and lust and need swept through him, sweetened by a pleasure greater than any he'd ever imagined. When Pistol began to move within him, Raphael cried out in ecstasy. His legs wrapped around Pistol's back, trying to push him inside deeper, wanting something, needing something… Pistol wrapped his fingers around Raphael's cock, squeezing and stroking in time to the thrusts of his hips. Suddenly, without warning, Raphael's body went rigid, every muscle straining as a volcanic explosion of pleasure rioted through his veins. He cried out, watching between their bodies as Pistol milked his very essence from Raphael's body. Pistol called out Raphael's name, only dimly heard through the thunder of blood pounding in Raphael's ears. His body slammed once, twice, against Raphael's, then stilled. Neither could speak. Pistol pulled out of Raphael's body, slumping into the grass next to him, breathing hard. For his part, Raphael could neither speak nor move. He trembled, every inch of him exquisitely hypersensitive. He could feel every blade of grass beneath his buttocks, sense the movement of tiny insects beneath the fragrant earth. Most astoundingly of all, he could still feel Pistol, as if


he'd remained inside. Their connection had not been severed by the distance between their bodies. He gasped when he realized what he'd done. "Y-You feel that, angel? I ain't never felt anything like this before. Like… I'm still inside you," Pistol whispered, his voice hoarse with astonishment. "I feel it, too. We are one. I-I'm sorry, Pistol." "Don't be sorry. It's great. I don't understand it. Usually when the sex is done, it's done. This is… Hell, I don't know what this is!" Raphael turned his head and smiled at Pistol. "I like it," he said, reaching over to touch Pistol's face. "I like feeling you." Pistol placed a kiss on Raphael's palm. "Yeah, I could get used to it, and that's a fact." Raphael looked into his eyes and saw again the heavy, solid walls Pistol had erected around his heart. This time, however, he noticed a long, jagged crack running through it. He smiled again and summoned his powers, sending a finger of healing love through the crevice. Pistol stiffened, but soon relaxed, his eyes growing wide. "That is love, Pistol. You've touched me unlike any other, both my body and heart," Raphael whispered. "No… don't want to love. You don't know what it was like, angel. How much it hurt when Tommy…" "I know what pain is, Pistol. I've spent my entire existence healing it. Let me heal yours. Please?" "You did, angel. I think you just did." Pistol rolled to his side, slipping his arms around Raphael's waist. "It's a goddamn fucking miracle." Raphael couldn't help rolling his eyes. Pistol had a long way to go yet, it seemed. "Taking the Lord's name in vain while praising His greatest gift is just wrong, Pistol." Pistol chuckled, nipping playfully at Raphael's shoulder. "Okay, okay. I'll try to curb my language." "Pistol, I… must tell you something very important. You and I have done more than link our bodies for a few moments. We've linked our lives, our very souls together." "We have, huh?" Pistol grinned. He threw a leg over Raphael's and laid his head on Raphael's chest. "If'n you say so." "You do not understand. I-"


"Can we not spoil this with a lot of lip-flapping?"

Raphael sighed. Surely they would have time to discuss this -- the rest of eternity, as a matter of

fact. He and Pistol were now bonded forever, even if Pistol didn't realize it. "Well, we still have

Thanatos to worry about."

Pistol groaned and his beautiful blue eyes sobered. "What now, angel? What do we do now?"

Raphael sighed and considered their options, of which there were very few. Suddenly, he

brightened. "I shall call Malak and Cael. They told me I should call for them if I found myself

needing their help. Perhaps we can find shelter with them, somewhere to hide from Thanatos."

"These guys are friends of yours?"

"They are an angel and a demon, but yes, they are my friends."

"Okay… how do you call them? Do you send up a bat signal or something?"

Raphael looked confused. "A what? No, I must use the device Malak gave me. He called it a cell

phone."

Pistol laughed. "Should've guessed. Okay… where are you keeping the phone? You don't seem

to have any pockets," he said, running a hand over Raphael's naked flesh.

Raphael paled as he remembered. "It is in the hospital room I found you in, Pistol. I had to shed

my clothing to fly and left it behind."

"Aw, shit! Ain't that where this Thana-whatever is?"

"Thanatos, and yes. Surely he is gone by now, though. He would have tried to follow our scent,

although I'd hoped the ocean would mask it."

"Okay. Never let it be said Pistol McKennon was a chickenshit. Let's go back." He stood up,

looking down at Raphael. Raphael didn't want to, didn't want to leave the peaceful valley and the lingering smell of their sex, but he knew he must. He stood, gathered Pistol in his arms yet again, and flew. *** Hovering outside the hospital room window, looking inside between the broken shards of glass that was all that remained of the pane, Raphael saw that nothing in the room had been touched. Aside from the addition of crisscrossing, bright yellow tape across the splintered door and window that read, "Police -- Do Not Cross," everything remained exactly as it had been when they'd left it.


No, he stood corrected. The reek of evil in the room was almost palpable. Raphael could almost taste it; the odor left a rancid, slimy film in his mouth. Thanatos had indeed been there. The pants Cael had lent him lay in a heap on the floor near the foot of the bed. Carefully entering through the window, he scooped them up and fished in the pocket, his fingers closing around the thin, rectangular shape of the cell phone. Smiling, he let the pants drop to the ground and flew back out the window. He'd left Pistol on the roof and didn't take a breath free from worry until he reached him again. The evil of Thanatos was so thick in the air both inside and surrounding the hospital, that Raphael was exceedingly anxious to put distance between it and Pistol. Cracking open the cell phone, he pushed the button numbered "one" and then stared at it. Cael did not appear. Instead, the phone jingled musically in his hand. He cocked his head, confused. Pistol snorted and raised Raphael's hand, putting the device to Raphael's ear. Suddenly, Raphael heard Cael's voice. "Hello? Raphael? That you?" "Cael?" Raphael yelled, marveling at the magic of human technology. Cael was nowhere in sight, but Raphael could hear him clearly. "Don't yell! I can hear you fine. Where are you? Did you find Michael's progeny?" "Yes. We are at the hospital in the city of Vegas. We need a place to hide-" Suddenly, a thunderous cracking sound split the air. Raphael's eyes grew wide, and the cell phone slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground. In front of them, across the gray, grainy surface of the roof, a wide fissure was ripping open in the air, sparks of Hellfire sizzling, the smell of evil flowing through the crack. It was too late. Thanatos had found them. Thanatos was enormous, easily the height of three men, reptilian skin covered his bulging muscles. His face was a hideous parody of Man. Bulging eyes rolled red in their sockets as malformed jaws full of jagged teeth snapped at the air. Raphael pushed Pistol behind him and summoned every ounce of his power he could dredge up from the core of his being, feeling it crackle in his fingertips. "Run, Pistol!" he shouted as he sent a wall of pure power streaking toward Thanatos. Raphael knew he had no chance of defeating the Hound of Hell, but perhaps he could slow him down enough for Pistol to get away. To his amazement -- and frustration -- Pistol wouldn't move. "I ain't leaving you here to face that thing alone!" Pistol shouted. He shouldered Raphael to the side, glaring at Thanatos. "You big, ugly motherfucker! You want a piece of me? Come on, come get it!"


"No, Pistol! Don't!" Raphael screamed. "Oh, Lord, please! Don't!" Thanatos laughed, an oily, booming sound that imploded all the windows on the top floor of the hospital as he took several thunderous steps in their direction. This was the end, then, Raphael thought miserably. He'd failed. Pistol would die horribly while Raphael watched, helpless, and Thanatos would drag Pistol into the Pits. "Raphael?" He wrenched his eyes away from Thanatos, who continued to bear down upon them, looking into Pistol's beautiful blue eyes for what Raphael realized was probably the last time. "Yes?" "When this is over, you and me are going to an island someplace, and I'm going make love to you until I'm old and feeble, and then after I die, we're gonna continue doing it on every cloud in Heaven. You got that? You're stuck with me, angel." Raphael gasped as Pistol wrapped his arms tightly around him and kissed him hard. He felt the crack he'd seen in the walls around Pistol's heart fracture and split wide open, and a love, golden, pure, and sweet, pour out, enveloping them both. It had texture, like a sun-warmed sheath of the finest silk, flowing over Raphael's skin. Thanatos roared, back arching as if in terrible pain. The golden bubble that surrounded Pistol and Raphael sent a finger snaking toward Thanatos. It speared him through his chest like a Heavenly lance, directly through his black and withered heart. His roar broke into a gurgling cry before Thanatos exploded into a spray of dark ash. Raphael barely noticed. All he was aware of was the warm, comforting embrace of Pistol's love encircling them, and Pistol's lips, soft upon his own. I have not failed, he realized finally, when Pistol ended the kiss and they saw the dusty remains of Thanatos blowing into the hot Vegas wind. I reached him in time, healed his heart. And won it for my own, he thought happily, pulling Pistol in for another kiss.


Dominion Quod Obsequium by Kiernan Kelly Cobalt blue eyes, the same brilliant blue as a deep shelf of ice, and that held as much warmth, detachedly watched the comings and goings on earth. Life had long ago lost its magic and mystery for Michael. So little changed over the millennia. Men were born, they aged, and they died. Souls were judged, sent to the Pits, or given succor in Heaven. Nothing ever changed. Once upon a time, he'd been curious and thought to sample the physical love Men seemed so fond of, and had found a willing woman. It had been pleasurable enough at the time, but it was over quickly, and Michael had felt nothing for her before, during, or afterwards. She'd been as feisty as a wet rag, lying beneath him with all the liveliness of tree stump. As quickly as he'd come, he'd left her, his curiosity satisfied. He'd suffered a great deal as punishment from The Boss for his request to have his connection with the woman severed. It was for the best. She would be free to find love elsewhere, and he would be free to continue his existence as he always had. After all, the liaison was Michael's fault, not hers. That he'd sired a child on her was a guilty burden he'd carried through the next two thousand years. Luckily for him, Raphael had fallen in love with the last of Michael's progeny, and saved the world from the threat of annihilation caused by Michael's fall from grace. He was grateful to Raphael, and glad Raphael had found happiness, even if it kept him bound to earth for the human's lifetime. Gabriel, Michael's closest angelic brother, had gone there even earlier. Poor Gabriel had had it up to his nose hairs with the sins of Man, and was ready to blow his trumpet, ushering in Judgment Day. He'd been sent to earth to see if there was anything worth saving, and had found it in the form of a human man, with whom he'd fallen in love. With both Gabriel and Raphael gone, Michael found Heaven unbearably lonely. He wondered, not for the first time, why he seemed destined to be alone. Alone… and bored out of his angelic mind. "Michael?" God's voice rumbled in his head, instantly starching Michael's spine. One didn't slouch when the Boss was speaking -- one stood at full attention, ramrod straight, eyes front. Instantly in warrior mode, Michael tensed as if ready for battle. "Oh, for My sake, will you relax? Jeez, Michael… I didn't create you with a stick up your ass, you know." His chuckle reverberated in Michael's bones. God had developed a rather sassy sense


of humor over the last couple of hundred years or so. He used to be a wrathful God, a vengeful one. Now, he was more like a game show host, always ready with a quip and a consolation prize for the loser. It was almost enough to make Michael long for the old days. Sometimes, he thought he'd give his right wing to be able to smite a city or two, just to break the monotony. "My Lord?" Michael answered, trying to relax, but failing. Too many eons leading God's army had left him unable to be anything but a soldier in His presence. He didn't miss God's sigh when the best Michael could do was an "at ease" posture with his feet spread and hands clasped behind his back. "Michael, you need to learn how to let go. I understand that some of it's My fault -- after all, I was a ruthless God for a long time. I kept you busy smiting this and smiting that, leading my Heavenly army. I left you practically no time for anything else. It's no wonder you are the way you are." "The way I am, Lord?" "Rigid. Domineering. You don't know how to do anything but issue orders. When you asked Raphael to go down to earth to save your great-whatever grandson, it nearly killed you to say 'please.' You need to learn to give over, Michael." "My Lord, I've never been anything but obedient…" "Of course -- to Me, but you've never been able to give an iota of control to anyone else. You've always felt pressed to carry the weight of the universe's problems on your shoulders alone. That has to change. Between you and Me, no one up here wants to be around you. Gabriel and Raphael were the only ones who could tolerate you, Michael, and now they're gone. It's no wonder you're so lonely." Ouch, that hurt. Knowing it was true didn't lessen the sting, either. Michael looked down at his feet, although, of course, he couldn't hide his burning cheeks from the All-Seeing. "Hey, don't take it personally, Michael. I just told you some of it was My fault. Besides, I've got the answer to your problem." "T-the answer?" Michael steeled himself, wondering what God was going to blast him with to soften the steel of his spine. He was confused and almost disappointed when nothing happened. "Good Grief, I'm not going to fix this for you. I'm just going to give you the means. You'll need to do the work yourself, but I've found the perfect place for you to go. Michael, you're going to take a little vacation, down on earth." "I don't need a vacation."


"Questioning My commands, Michael? Tsk, tsk. That's so unlike you." "No, of course not, my Lord. As always, I am willing to do Your bidding." "That's better. You'll be on your own, Michael, totally incommunicado. You'll be bound to earth for forty days and nights. At the end of that time, if you wish to return, you may do so, but not before. You will meet someone whom you will serve in My stead. Obey him as you would Me. Do you understand?" Forty days? It seemed to be one of God's favorite numbers, and Michael flinched, remembering the amount of damage He could do in that many days. The last time that number came up, He'd nearly drowned the entire planet. Who was this man the Boss spoke of? What possible good would come from serving a human? Michael didn't understand, but knew better than to argue. "Yes, my Lord," Michael replied dutifully, if unenthusiastically. "How will I know this human? "Oh, you'll know him when you see him," the Boss laughed. Then He was gone, leaving Michael alone with a horrible feeling of foreboding. He shook himself and gave a mental shrug. Forty days and nights was less than the blink of an eye to Michael. He would find this human and serve him. How bad could it be? *** Michael kept his eyes closed, holding perfectly still for a moment to give his body time to adjust to the atmosphere of the earthly plane. He remembered the heavy feeling of gravity and the dizzying vertigo from his many trips down. This certainly wasn't his first foray into the world of Men, and he knew what to expect. It eased off quickly, and he took stock of his surroundings. He was standing in a narrow stall, his feet ankle-deep in the cold water held by a white porcelain bowl. There was a small roll of tissue-thin paper hanging on the wall, and the cubicle reeked with a most unpleasant smell. A bathroom. God had planted him feet-first in a toilet. Michael rolled his eyes. It was just a prime example of God's newfound sass -- potty humor on a cosmic level. Stepping out of the toilet, Michael used his powers to dry his feet. He was naked, but quickly solved that problem, summoning his armor. Breastplate, leather skirt, armbands, helmet, sword and sheath, and lace-up leather boots appeared on his body. The weight was comforting; the leather knew his body well. He shimmered his wings into invisibility, knowing from experience he would be spared long and lengthy explanations if he kept them from human eyes.


He tried to push the door to the cubicle open, but found that he needed to pull it instead. With a great amount of clattering and clanging, and many un-angelic expletives, he succeeded in squeezing past the door, freeing himself from the stall. Movement flashed in a mirror hung over a sink. Michael stopped for a moment, eyeing his reflection. Not too shabby for a creature who'd been created at the very Beginning. His muscles were strong and clearly defined, his face elegant and without a single wrinkle to mar his skin. Long, blond hair fell in a shimmering wave well past his broad shoulders. His waist and hips were narrow, his legs long. He looked pretty damned good, pardon the expression. Feeling a little smug, Michael wrenched open the bathroom door and stepped outside to find out exactly where God had decided to dump him for this little unwanted -- and in Michael's opinion, unnecessary -- learning experience. Low lighting cast the large room aglow. A long bar ran across the back wall; several shelves behind it were lined with bottles of many shapes and colors. Men, most dressed in leather apparel of one type or another, stood in small groups or sat at tables. The smell of alcohol was strong, but barely masked the scent of arousal that permeated the room. A bar? Michael thought, casting his eyes Heavenward. He didn't expect an answer since God had already told him he'd be incommunicado, but really… was this the best He could do? He should've put Michael in the rec room of a senior citizen home, or in the Religions of the World aisle at the library. Either would have generated about the same level of excitement for him. Michael wondered why The Boss had chosen a bar. An army barracks, he could have understood. Michael was a warrior and always had been. He knew battle and the chain of command. Serving a human general would at least have made some sense. What good was it going to do him to serve some liquored-up barfly? Which one was he? Michael scanned the bar's patrons. Men of all shapes and sizes intermingled, some tall, some short, some beefy, others slender, most wearing one or more articles of leather -vests or jackets, pants, straps, belts, and boots. He sighed, remembering a time when leather was a necessary battle armament. Now men used it as some sort of costume, and most of them looked ridiculous in it. He was spotted, several pairs of eyes turning toward him with interest. It wasn't unexpected -- a six-foot, six-inch tall man of unearthly beauty and strength was sure to attract attention, particularly since he was dressed in battle armor. He straightened his spine, looking down his nose at all of them. "My, my… aren't you the warrior!" a skinny man near Michael said. He was small, the top of his balding head barely reaching Michael's shoulder. He wore a neatly trimmed, pencil-thin mustache, and reeked of cheap cologne. A leather vest was all he wore over his sunken chest. Michael felt the man's bony fingers slide up the side of his bare thigh, and resisted the urge to separate them from the rest of the man's body.


Was this him? No, Michael decided immediately. God had said Michael would instantly know which human he was to serve. This skinny man was not him. The only thing Michael felt like serving him was a backhand into the closest wall. "Fair warning, little man. I claim ownership to whatever part of you touches me. If you wish to keep your hand attached to the rest of you, I suggest you remove it from my person," Michael growled, turning his ice-blue eyes on him. His fingers caressed the hilt of his sword, an action not unnoticed by his unwanted admirer. The man squeaked and backed up, eyes wide. Michael heard him muttering something about "damn doms" under his breath as he slunk away. Michael dismissed the man from his mind, and looked back at the room. It seemed everyone was now staring at him. He met each and every man's eyes, returning their gaze with a bone-chilling one of his own. Michael had commanded legions of angels in his time -- no one could hold his intimidating, steel-edged glare. No one, that is, except one man. He was tall, easily as tall as Michael, but much beefier, his large muscles and flat stomach accentuated by the twin straps of black leather that crossed his wide, hairy chest. Long, powerful legs were encased in skintight black leather, the strong muscles of his thighs and calves clearly outlined under the soft material. Michael remembered thinking just a moment ago that most of the men in the bar looked preposterous in their leather get-ups; not this man. He wore it well, looked born to it, as comfortable in it as if it were a part of him. The man's dark brown hair was gathered into a sleek queue, and he sported a neatly trimmed goatee. His face was handsome enough, but not pretty by any stretch of the imagination. His was a more rugged beauty, like the magnificence of a craggy mountain. He reminded Michael a little of Goliath, the giant whom the diminutive human, Daniel, had vanquished with his slingshot. Unlike Goliath, who hadn't been the smartest sheep in the flock, this man's eyes sparkled with intelligence, and they stared unflinchingly back at Michael like two chips of gleaming obsidian. Interesting, Michael thought. This one has some spine to him. From somewhere deep inside Michael's gut came the undeniable knowledge that this was the man The Boss had sent Michael to meet. This is him. The one I've been sent to serve. The man began to move toward Michael. He noticed the other men in the room giving way, the crowd separating before him as if parted with a knife. Whoever he was, that he unconsciously commanded respect and deference was immediately obvious. Again, interesting. Michael's curiosity was piqued as he watched the man stride forward, every pore dripping cool, selfassured confidence. It was neither his size nor his strength that was the source of the man's arrogance. Michael sensed the power of the man's personality crackling in the air like static electricity, raising the


hair on Michael's arms and the back of his neck. A warrior, Michael thought, one who's seen battle before, perhaps many times. As the man neared, Michael felt a trill of excitement ripple through him. If nothing else, their encounter was going to be extraordinary, the clashing of two titans. His cheek hitched in a cocky grin as his fingers twitched over the haft of his sword. Then he remembered The Boss' orders and almost sighed aloud as disappointment flooded him. As much as Michael wished to challenge this man, to test his mettle, he was under orders to serve, and serve he would. Something tells me this isn't going to be as easy as I'd thought, Michael thought. His face revealed nothing, but the feeling of foreboding he'd had suddenly grew stronger.


Chapter Two A black gaze raked over him, hot and full of superiority, and a voice, deep and melodic, but nonetheless imperial in tone, reached Michael's ears. "Your name." It wasn't a question. It was a command, issued with the full expectation of being obeyed. Michael sniffed and lifted a haughty eyebrow, but remained silent. If it was a battle of wills this human wanted, he would get one, although he would lose. After all, God told Michael to serve the human, but had said nothing about making it easy. "I asked you your name." "I declined to give it." A small smile played on the man's lips. His eyes cut momentarily toward the crowd of men who watched them. He gave a small nod toward them. "Here, I alone am Master. If you wish to play, you must first gain my approval." "I need no man's approval," Michael replied coolly. He let his eyes roam over the selfproclaimed Master's body, leisurely, insolently. Master, indeed. Michael had only one Master, and He had stuck Michael feet-first in a crapper. What could this puny human do to claim the same title? Thick fingers, strong yet curiously graceful, touched Michael's jaw lightly, ignoring the growl that rumbled in Michael's chest. "You intrigue me. Beautiful. Impertinent. Arrogant. It will be a pleasure teaching you to mind your betters." He leaned in close, and whispered into Michael's ear. "I know what you need, boy, and you will serve me." Michael didn't know what stunned him more -- the man's impudence, the awed gasp from the crowd, or the tingle of excitement that coursed through him at the man's words and touch. I know what you need. How could this mere mortal know what Michael needed? Especially when Michael wasn't sure what it was, himself? More, how had he known Michael was there to serve him? "What is that?" he asked, unable to keep the question behind his teeth. "Come with me and find out," the man said, crooking a finger at Michael. He turned and walked away, obviously expecting Michael to follow. Even Michael couldn't have explained why he did, except to blame it on his honor. He'd sworn to serve the man, after all. Yes, that was it, he thought. At the very least, he'd be amused for a few minutes by whatever the man thought he had in store for Michael, particularly when Michael turned the tables on him and broke him like a toothpick.


No, you can't do that, he reminded himself. You're here to serve, not slaughter, remember? He ground his teeth and wondered what the penance would be for directly disobeying The Boss' order. Nothing pleasant, he was sure. The man led him out of the bar into a narrow hallway. He pressed a button on the wall, elevator doors sliding silently open, and he waved Michael inside. The doors closed and the elevator began to rise. It stopped after only two floors, but the doors remained shut. The man turned his penetrating black gaze on Michael again. Michael felt the man's eyes searching for a chink in his armor, an opening through which to plunge his knife. "I would like a name to call you. I doubt if you would answer to "boy," although that would suit me as well as any." "I am not now, nor have I ever been, a boy," Michael replied. It was true, of course. He'd been created fully grown, as he was, an Archangel of incalculable power, a warrior. "A name then? Any will do." Michael considered it, realizing he didn't want to entertain the possibility of being addressed by this human as anything but his rightful and proper name. Names were powerful, and his literally translated to 'Like God.' "Michael," he said through tightly clenched teeth. He detested even that small concession to the human, and wondered how much more difficult it was going to be when he actually had to start obeying. It occurred to Michael that he had absolutely no idea what the man would ask of him. In the old days, Michael imagined he'd be ordered to smite the man's enemies, or make him a king. For all Michael knew, this man might order him to pick up dry cleaning or clean his bathroom. "Michael it is. You may call me Sir." "I will call you what I please, if I deign to call you anything at all." He poured ice into his voice, wanting to see the big man squirm, or at least flinch under the coldness of Michael's eyes, to give Michael some small measure of respect. He was feeling increasingly at odds with his plight, wanting to obey his sworn promise, yet aching to disobey and cut the man down. Pride, Michael thought. That's your pride talking. Be humble. Force yourself to obey. The man didn't flinch. Instead, his lips lifted in a smile that was full of secrets. Michael looked away, fighting the urge to use his power to find out exactly what Sir knew that he didn't. "Oh, you will, Michael. You will." The man pressed a button and the doors slid open soundlessly. Michael did a double-take as Sir seemed to address the thought that had been voiced only in Michael's head. There was no clue in Sir's deep, black eyes, only cool reserve. Another mystery, another tweak to Michael's already taxed curiosity.


Sir gestured grandly, allowing Michael to precede him from the elevator. Sir stepped around him, and opened another door, ushering Michael inside. Michael found himself in an apartment, decorated in dark woods and elegant brass. A small, overstuffed sofa sat side by side with a leather recliner and a glass coffee table. He could see a kitchen and bathroom off to one side, and another door opening off the back wall. "Please, have a seat, Michael." "I prefer to stand." "Fighter to the end, are you? Good. I love a challenge," the man said, taking a seat on the sofa. He leaned back comfortably, resting his massive arms along the high back of the couch. The action brought Michael's attention to his expansive chest, and the thick curls that covered it. His fingers itched, wondering what the hair might feel like against his palms, against his cheek. Michael remembered who he was and why he was there in the nick of time. He'd been about to reach for Sir to satisfy his curiosity. How unlike him! It must be an effect of gravity on my brain, Michael thought. It's throwing me off balance. Serve, not be served, he reminded himself. "I know what you need, Michael." Michael's eyes met Sir's again, staring hard into their black depths. "You've said that before. Exactly what is it that you think I need?" "Simple. You came to my bar tonight to learn how to give. Isn't that right? Let's see if this sounds familiar… you've spent your entire adult life giving orders. I would guess that you've a military background -- you have that bearing about you. Shaped and molded into a soldier, given a heavy responsibility. The lives of others have rested on your shoulders many times. As a result, you've learned to give nothing, to stand always as if you're made of steel. Isn't that right?" Michael was impressed despite himself. How had the man fathomed so much about him within the first ten minutes of meeting him, particularly since Michael had given him nothing to go by? "Go on." "You're tired of life, bored by it. It holds no surprises anymore, no challenges worthy of you. You have no close relationships with anyone. You're lonely and you're bored and you ache for something different. For once in your entire existence, you want to follow, to ease the burden of leadership off your shoulders." Michael was shocked, although he covered it well. Sir had hit his problem dead-on, ascertained Michael's deepest secret, the one he wouldn't admit, even to himself. After eons of being Michael, the one everyone else looked to for direction, the Hand of God, the Avenger, he wanted to lay down his fiery sword and responsibilities, and just… be. Let someone else take over. Follow instead of lead. It made him even more intrigued to find out what Sir was planning to make him do.


"I'm still listening." The man laughed. "Michael, in a dark corner of your heart, guarded zealously perhaps, kept from everyone else around you, is the need to be dominated. That's why you came here tonight." Now it was Michael's turn to laugh. Give up leadership, maybe. Be dominated by a human? Never! He would serve, but only by focusing his formidable will and condescending to do so -never willingly, and certainly never submissively. "You think you can dominate me?" he sniffed. "I know I can. I'm an excellent Master. Many seek to be taken by me, few are ever chosen. I choose you, Michael, but I can see you're under the assumption that I would fight you for domination. This isn't true. To me, you'll give over freely. I won't have to force you. There's only one person you must fight, and that's yourself." "Me? That doesn't make sense," Michael scoffed. Obviously, the human didn't know what he was talking about. Fighting oneself was nonsense. Battle was between two fitting adversaries, steel biting steel in a clash of sparks and metal. "Oh, but it does! I'll give you orders, yes, but you'll fight yourself to obey them. I'll punish you when you fail, and make no mistake -- you will fail at first, because your ego doesn't want to submit, doesn't want to obey. You'll curse and rage, and fight tooth and nail with yourself to keep from submitting to me, even though you know obedience is the only way to win. Are you a worthy adversary, Michael? Can you conquer yourself?" Michael hadn't thought anything could surprise him anymore, but that certainly did. It stunned him, and intrigued him more than he wanted to admit. Fight himself? He didn't know anyone, short of the Boss, who could best him. Not even Lucifer, Michael's twin brother, could stand against his strength. But what about himself? If he hadn't already promised The Boss he would serve, could Michael force himself to submit to a mere human? To reshape his will, the very essence of his being? He had to admit the idea was very interesting… tempting, even. A challenge! A true challenge, the likes of which he hadn't seen in eons. "What do you think, Michael? Answer me." The imperious tone was back in Sir's voice, and Michael understood this was the first test. His first reaction was to answer as he had before, insolently, but he bit back the caustic retort that danced on his tongue. He wanted this, wanted to try to best himself, and in the process, obey The Boss' directive. "Yes… Sir." "Very good. There may be hope for you yet, Michael." Sir stood and walked toward the door at the rear of the living room. "Come," he said without turning or waiting for Michael to do so.


Michael forced himself to follow silently. His gut twisted as his body rebelled against the strained obedience, but he somehow felt almost giddy, as if he'd won the first small skirmish. Sir opened the door into a dark room and stepped inside. A red light flicked on, casting a crimson glow around the room. There were several metal shelves attached to the far wall that held boxes, whips, floggers, crops, and many phallic-shaped objects. A cot was shoved against one wall, the only piece of furniture Michael recognized. Something that looked like a leather hammock was suspended from the ceiling in another corner. Chains dangled in the center of the room, heavy manacles swinging at the ends. Another set of metal cuffs were bolted to the floor. Michael had seen enough of such places in the Middle Ages to know what he was looking at. It was a dungeon, although he sensed it was not designed to torture innocents. He doubted anyone had ever entered this room without being fully aware of what they were getting themselves into - except, of course, for him. "Disrobe, Michael." Michael's head snapped toward Sir. He looked completely at ease, standing in the middle of the room, waiting. Michael stared hard, his mind racing. Why? What benefit would Sir derive from Michael being naked? Then it hit him. Of course! To humans, nakedness equated with shame. Sir meant to humiliate him. Well, that certainly wouldn't work. Michael was proud of his body, always had been. Not enough to qualify as being guilty of another of the Seven Deadlies, but enough to be confident of himself. He slowly removed his armor, placing each piece on the floor in a neat pile. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest as Sir walked in a small circle around him. Michael could feel Sir's gaze on him, examining him. After a few minutes of continued silence, Michael began to feel the first stirrings of unease. What did Sir want? Why wasn't he saying anything? Was he comparing Michael's body to those of others brought into this room before him? Surely Sir didn't find Michael lacking! Did he? "On the shelves at the back of the room is a yellow box. Bring it to me." Michael's supreme confidence was dented by Sir's lack of comment on his physique. He moved quickly to fetch the box, bringing it back to Sir held in both hands. Anything, Michael told himself, to stop Sir from staring silently at his bare skin. It was unnerving. "Open it." Inside the box were several items, but Michael couldn't discern a use for any of them. A small circle of leather, too small to be a bracelet, lay next to a bulbous-shaped rubber object, a pair of tiny silver clamps, and something that looked like a miniature cage. "Pick one."


Another test, he thought. Michael studied the objects carefully. He wasn't sure of any of their functions, and at first was tempted by the cage-like object, but decided simple was the safest way to go. He picked up the small leather circlet, handing it to Sir. What harm could there be in such an innocuous, thin strip of black leather? Sir took the box from him and returned it to the shelf. "You've done well, Michael. Are you finding it easier to obey me now? I can see it in your eyes, in the way your body moves. It will get more difficult for you from this point on. Are you ready?" Michael felt a small thrill from Sir's compliment. Yes, he was winning against his nature! He found himself eager to face more thorny challenges and nodded. "Yes, Sir. When I ask you a question, you will answer 'Yes, Sir,' or 'No, Sir.' Is that clear?" Michael started to nod, but caught himself. Another test. So be it. "Yes, Sir." "Good. I'll let it pass this time, but if you fail to remember again, you'll be punished. Come here, Michael," Sir ordered, his voice gruff. He unsnapped the circlet and ran the supple leather strip through his fingers. A tickle of fear, an emotion Michael had never felt before, tripped down his spine. There was something in the way Sir held the leather, stroked it between his fingers, that told Michael it wasn’t as harmless as he'd believed. Nonetheless, he forced himself to walk over and stand before Sir. "Do you know what this is, Michael?" "No, Sir." "It's a cockring. I'm going to put it on your penis. You will stand here and hold still while I do so." Michael's eyes widened, but he forced himself to hold his ground, standing at rigid attention while Sir's warm fingers lifted his flaccid cock. He began to stroke Michael, pulling none-toogently on his delicate foreskin. Michael was utterly shocked when his organ grew firmer in Sir's hand, desire warming Michael's belly. It was all he could do to remain silent and still. Sir stopped stroking him just as Michael was beginning to relax and enjoy his touch. Sir took the small strip of leather and used it to encircle the base of Michael's penis, snapping it closed at the ends. The ring felt tight, binding, but not so much so that it was painful, and he had to admit that the sensations Sir's fingers had caused were quite pleasurable. He was almost disappointed when Sir let go. "Good, Michael. You're doing well. I'm pleased. Now, come here," Sir said, leading Michael to the center of the room.


Michael eyed the manacles that hung from the ceiling and the ankle cuffs and chains that were coiled on the floor. He knew that if he so desired, he could yank them out of their moorings without any difficulty. It would only take a minute amount of the strength at his command. Could he allow himself to be bound and not free himself? It would be a much more difficult battle than the other small tests. He decided he wanted to try, and walked silently toward Sir. "Hold out your hands, Michael." He did and watched as Sir lifted one arm, then the other into the air, and snapped the heavy, cold metal manacles around his wrists. The chains were short, holding Michael's hands up over his head. Sir bent down, and repeated the process with Michael's feet, spreading his legs and cuffing each ankle. His gut roiled as he fought his instinct to rattle the chains, to free himself. Chained, he was open to attack, and it went against his very nature. It was much more difficult than Michael had ever imagined it would be, and he ground his teeth, stubbornly refusing to give in. Beads of sweat dotted his brow, more trickled down his spine, every muscle in his body tensing. "Lovely, quite lovely," Sir said. Michael felt Sir's fingers tracing the knobs of his spine to the small of his back. "Do you like being made vulnerable, Michael?" "Let me go," Michael hissed through his clenched teeth. He wouldn't disobey and free himself, but if Sir released him… "Tsk, tsk. That isn't what I asked you. Do you like being vulnerable?" Michael glared at Sir, baring his teeth. He wasn't vulnerable! He was purposely allowing this pathetic human to keep him bound. Only his oath to obey God kept him from pulling his arms free and throttling the arrogance from Sir's body with his bare hands. "I asked you a question, and you've refused to answer me. I've warned you about what would happen if you disobeyed me, Michael." Michael's eyes snapped open, his upper body twisting as he tried to watch Sir walk to the back of the room where the shelving units were, but he moved out of Michael's line of sight. You're losing! You let him bait you. Will you lose this contest so easily? Michael chastised himself. He managed to calm himself, to regain his center and composure. No, I will not lose! Sir returned, standing before Michael, holding a short leather flogger in his hands. He pulled the supple leather strips between his fingers. Michael eyed it as if it were a venomous snake, ready to strike him.


"Pain is a double-edged sword, Michael. It can hurt, yes. Oh, my, yes. But it can heal, as well. The healing process is often quite painful for wounds of both the body and the heart." Sir's black eyes bore into Michael's. "You'll find that there is a razor sharp line between pain and pleasure, Michael, and it's often difficult to tell the where one ends and the other begins. Some men misbehave purposely, so I'll be forced to punish them. Of course, I don't. I never reward bad behavior. In the end, they punish themselves." Michael tensed. He hadn't signed up for this. This was no longer a battle of wills within himself. If Sir thought for one moment that Michael was going to stand still and let Sir whip him, why then… The first crack drew a surprised yelp from Michael's lips. It stung his ass like a bee, sharp and burning. Certainly not the worst pain Michael had ever endured, but the shame that accompanied it was far worse. He twisted, chains rattling, and it was all he could not to yank them free from the ceiling and wrap them around Sir's neck. Then there was another crack, another sting that compounded the first, then yet another in quick succession. Michael's butt was on fire, his back arching, knees bending, trying to put distance between his skin and the fiery kiss of the flogger. No! Don't give in! Don't let Sir win! I can do this, he thought firmly, refusing to give in to the raging compulsion to stuff the flogger down Sir's throat or somewhere even more uncomfortable. Another crack warmed the back of his thighs; yet another, his back, again and again. He held firm and felt pride swell in his heart. A sin, yes, but he'd deal with the ramifications of that later, when he returned to Heaven. For now, it was small enough recompense for standing strong and allowing the whipping. A small smile replaced the grimace on his face. He was winning. "I wish you could see your back, Michael. It truly is a thing of beauty. There are many sets of crisscrossing red stripes across your golden skin." Michael felt Sir drag the leather strips of the flogger along the crack of his ass. His cock felt it, too, twitching awake again. Damn him! The last thing Michael expected to have to deal with was a hard-on. He'd spent millennia fighting Lust, refusing to give into it again since that first and last time so long ago. That experience hadn't ended well, and he refused to go through it again. Yet Sir managed to kindle desire within him with only the touch of his hand and the kiss of leather on Michael's heated skin. It was yet another part of himself he was going to have to fight, he realized.


"Have you ever let anyone fuck you, Michael? I'm willing to bet you haven't. No, my Michael is a top, most definitely. You've never felt a thick, hard cock pounding into your flesh, the burning, the stretching, or the incredible feeling of fullness. Your asshole is as virgin as newly fallen snow, never tested, never breached." Michael didn't answer. It was true, of course, as were all of Sir's observations, but he refused to admit it. When Sir said it, it didn't sound like a virtue. Sir's words exacerbated the problem that had grown between Michael's legs. His lower belly warmed, and his balls swelled with need; the leather ring grew tight, and head of his cock beaded with moisture. His breath grew ragged as he tried to ignore the building heat in his groin. He tried to concentrate on the burn he still felt on his ass, but somehow, that only made it worse. Sir walked behind him again, and Michael braced himself for another round of fiery strikes. Instead, he felt a palm soothing his tender skin, then fingers probing between his sore ass cheeks, and finally, warm breath against the puckered hole that lay hidden there. He moaned. He couldn't help it, and couldn't have held it back if he'd tried. Sir's tongue, wet and warm, lapped at Michael's asshole, wringing more droplets of precome from his cock. Sir's fingers dug into Michael's sore flesh, rekindling the pain, adding another dimension to the sensations that wracked his body. "This is what you want, isn't it? What you need? I'm going to give it to you, Michael." Why did it sound more like a promise than a threat? Why did it sound so appealing that Michael's cock twitched greedily, his balls swelling until he feared they'd burst? When had he crossed the line between fighting and wanting? More importantly, what was taking Sir so long? Wet fingers probed his hole, making Michael gasp and wriggle his bonds musically. A hard smack on the ass stilled him. "Don't fidget," Sir admonished, as his breath warmed Michael's butt. "Hold still." "Y-yes, Sir," Michael answered, feeling inordinately proud that he'd remembered the proper response. "Was that a question, Michael?" Oh, no. "No, Sir." "No, it was not." The flat of Sir's hand connected with the sore flesh of Michael's backside, drawing both another yelp and another bolt of need from him.


His cock swelled to stretch the limits of the cockring; Michael could feel the blood throbbing in the heavy vein that ran along the underside of his penis. It seemed to mirror his heartbeat, each pulse an agony of unbearable sweetness. He heard Sir walk away again and listened for him to return. Michael stood, his arms beginning to ache, his cock leaking droplets to the floor, body strung so tightly with need that he thought he might shatter at the slightest touch. The compulsion to be free, to wrap his hand around his cock and stroke it until he felt relief, was nearly unbearable. For the first time since Sir had challenged him, Michael wondered if he was strong enough to win.


Chapter Three Michael's body, to his great surprise, didn't shatter. Instead, his back arched when Sir pressed something cold and rounded and slick between his cheeks, probing at his hole. Every nerve ending sizzled under his skin, and the fire that still heated his ass competed with a new kind of burn as Sir pushed the object past his sphincter muscle and into Michael's body. His hands wrapped around the chains attached to the cuffs on his wrists, knuckles whitening, muscles bulging, as he fought his body's natural impulse to expel the object pushing insistently deeper into his ass. Sir's hand stung his buttocks several times, along with a sharp command to "Open." He tried to relax his straining muscles, to accept the intrusion, but it was extremely difficult. In his mind, being breached physically equated to being dominated; his ego was taking much more of a bruising than his body. Even worse was the way his body was betraying him. Although he didn't want to admit it, he was enjoying the feeling, both the burn on his skin and the one that flared deeper within him. The movement of the object stopped, although the feeling of fullness and the discomfort did not. His asshole clenched repeatedly, uncontrollably, around the unforgiving object, and Michael found himself hard pressed to decide if it was trying to push it out, or pull it in deeper. Sir appeared before him. To Michael's shock, Sir was nude, except for the broad black straps that crisscrossed his chest, and a pair of buckled, calf-high leather boots. Michael thought he looked more naked with the boots on than he would have if he were completely nude. No straps or boots could detract from the cock that hung between Sir's strong thighs. It was thick and heavily veined and colored a deep rose. Sir’s fingers smoothed over the rigid muscles in Michael's arms and chest, pausing to toy almost idly with a nipple. "Relax, Michael. It's only a butt plug, and a small one at that. Oh, your ass is quite tight! It took a great deal of effort to work it in. I wish you could see it. Look at me, Michael!" Michael's cobalt blue eyes snapped up to meet Sir's gaze. He realized he'd been staring at Sir's nipples, both pierced with shiny silver rings, and wondering what they tasted like. Would they be warm from contact with his skin, or cool, like the steel of a blade? What would the taste of flesh and metal be like when combined on his tongue? "Keep the plug in. Do not let it slide out, Michael. I am preparing you, opening you. I don't want to have to fight to get inside you later." Michael's eyes widened. Inside me? He'd thought that part was over, that Sir had fulfilled his promise to fuck Michael by inserting the plug into his ass. His cock jerked at the thought of the impersonal plug being replaced by the thick, swollen organ that hung between Sir's meaty thighs.


Sir's fingers again wrapped around Michael's cock, giving it a few long, slow strokes. "You will not come, Michael. Do you understand?" "Yes, Sir." He didn't, not really. What purpose would that serve, except to torture him? Sweet torture, perhaps, but torture nonetheless. Michael grit his teeth, forcing his mind to wander, to think of other things, any thing other than what Sir's strong fingers were doing to him. The Tower of Babel? No, too phallic shaped. Sodom? No! Definitely not! Moses? Yes, Moses was safe. He'd been a competent soldier, followed orders, but had a face like the rear end of a yak. Big bushy beard, not in the least bit attractive. "Good. I'm going to free you now. You will not touch yourself. You will not touch me. Is that understood?" "Yes, Sir," Michael said absently, still trying to keep his mind otherwise occupied. Sir unlocked each of Michael's hands from the cuffs in turn, and they flopped to his sides like two dead fish, almost completely numb. His circulation began to return quickly, beginning with pins and needles in his fingers that spread like wildfire up to his shoulders. It was all he could do to remain still and bear it, as Sir unlocked the manacles from his ankles. "You're doing well, Michael. Follow me." Michael forced his feet to move, his ass cheeks clenching around the butt plug. Sir led him to the odd-looking leather hammock hanging in one corner of the room. It didn't look very comfortable; in fact, it seemed to be only a system of wide leather straps and chains suspended from the ceiling. He noticed more cuffs, and his wrists ached anew from the recent memory of being shackled. "Get in, Michael." Michael hesitated, and was rewarded with a sharp crack across his buttocks. Only his swift reflexes kept the butt plug from popping out of his ass. He forced himself to move to the front of the hammock and tried to figure out the best -- and easiest -- way to climb into it. Sir sighed behind him. "I was right about so many things, wasn't I, Michael? You've never lain in a sling before, have you?" He gripped Michael's shoulders and turned his back to the sling. "Back into it." He did and immediately felt ridiculous. His ass hung over the front strap, his head over the rear. It supported his weight, but still felt flimsy, rocking to and fro from his movement. Sir didn't seem disturbed by Michael's awkward mount, or by his absurd appearance. Instead, Sir locked Michael's wrists into the cuffs, and secured his ankles with a second pair that dangled from the ceiling. Once again, Michael was held immobile, at Sir's mercy.


"Do you know what's going to happen now, Michael?" "No, Sir." The blood that had so recently returned to Michael's hands began to drain again, leaving his fingers feeling cold. "I'm going to fuck you." That snapped Michael's attention back to Sir in an eye blink. He watched Sir reach between his spread legs and remove the butt plug. Michael bit back a sigh, although he had to admit he'd grown used to the full feeling the plug gave him. His cock thickened again, lying heavily against his stomach as he watched Sir slowly approach. Sir positioned himself between Michael's legs and looked down at him. Never before, not while in chains, or being flogged, or having his asshole plugged with rubber, did Michael feel as vulnerable as he did at that moment. His asshole was exposed, his legs held high in the air by the chains. His hands were secured. He was at the total mercy of Sir. True, he could have escaped whenever he wished, but he'd come so far… and, if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, he was enjoying it. He liked the fact that he could best himself, liked better the feelings Sir drew from his body with his touch, both the painful and the pleasurable. Sir fisted himself, giving Michael a show, using long, languid strokes from the base of his cock to the fat head. Michael could see drops of moisture glistening there, watched Sir spread the viscous drops with his thumb. Michael was growing impatient, swallowing grunts of displeasure as Sir teased him. His penis was harder than it was before, bound tightly by the leather ring. His balls swelled, his asshole twitched; he needed relief, needed badly. Sir walked to the shelves and returned with a small bottle of clear liquid. He squirted a generous amount into his hand, rubbing it over the head of his cock as he moved in between Michael's legs again. Michael lost his self control for a moment when Sir pressed two slick fingers into his hole. He gasped, letting his head hang backwards. Oh! It felt so good! His body wanted to buck, to force itself down onto those probing fingers, but he couldn't really move. All he could do was lie there and wait to be taken. He didn't have to wait long. In the space of a heartbeat, Sir removed his fingers and replaced them with something much thicker and hotter. Michael gasped again as Sir pressed his cock's head against his opening, and cried out as his body gave way, letting Sir slide deeply inside him. Sir began to move, his hips thrusting against Michael's buttocks, jangling the chains and forcing the sling into an easy rocking motion. Sir's fingers dug into Michael's hips; his thrusts grew stronger and faster. His hips punished Michael's sore butt cheeks; the hair on Sir's legs irritated


the delicate flesh of Michael's inner thighs. All the while, Sir's cock, meaty and hard, rammed into him again and again, driving Michael closer and closer to the very brink of insanity. Stubbornly, Michael refused to ask for pity. His body cried out for relief, but he wouldn't give in. He held his orgasm back, although the effort brought tears to his eyes. "Feels so good, Michael!" Sir breathed. "So tight, so fucking tight!" Yes! Michael screamed inside his head. More! I want more, damn it! His lips, however, remained doggedly sealed. I will win this, if it kills me! It wouldn't, of course, and he knew it. It couldn't. Michael, no matter what outer shell he wore, was immortal, but it was the principle of the thing, after all. Sir looked down at him, his dark eyes glittering. "Do you want to come, Michael?" Finally! "Yes, Sir!" Michael said, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. He couldn't help it. He felt as if his cock were ready to shoot off his body like a bottle rocket. "You've obeyed very well. You've pleased me," Sir said, slowing his brutal thrusts to a much slower, easy pace. "All right, Michael. You may come." As if Sir's words had opened a floodgate, Michael's body arched in the sling as his orgasm let loose. He bounced against the straps underneath him, every muscle growing rigid as his climax tore through him. His cock jerked, spurting ribbons of seed over his belly and chest. The one orgasm he'd felt in the entirety of his existence had been nothing like this one. That one had been pleasurable. This was nearly enough to make Michael lose his mind. His eyes screwed shut and behind his lids he saw a million dancing stars. In his ears, he heard Sir's hoarse cries, and dimly felt liquid heat create a new sort of pressure within him. He realized Sir had joined him, was coming, pumping his semen inside Michael's body. The realization drew another short spurt from his cock, a last hurrah, and left Michael trembling and feeling as weak as a newborn. When Michael finally opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Sir's smile. It was soft, as were his eyes, happy and sated and almost glowing. Sir looks very much the way I feel, he decided. I never knew anything could feel like that! I never realized giving up control could be so wonderful! "Do you have anything to say, Michael? I give you permission to speak," Sir said softly. Michael's throat didn't want to work for a moment and he had to clear it. "Yes. Thank you. You've given me a great gift." Sir's smile grew broader. "See? I'm not one to say 'I told you so,' but…"


"Yes, you did tell me. I didn't believe you, and for that I apologize," Michael said as Sir helped him out of the sling. His entire body was sore, but in a good way, and his ass was dripping the last of Sir's seed. It ran in a rivulet down the back of Michael's leg, cooling quickly. "Well, I'll leave you to dress," Sir said. He reached for Michael's cock and removed the leather ring. Smiling at Michael, he turned to leave. Michael stopped him with a hand on Sir's shoulder. "Wait! Please… I…" Sir turned to look at him. His eyes were bottomless pools of inky darkness. "What is it, Michael?" For the first time in his existence -- today seemed to be a long line of "firsts," he realized -Michael was at a loss for words to express what he was feeling. Instead, he placed his hands gently on Sir's cheeks and leaned forward, kissing him. Sir pulled away, removing Michael's hands from his face kindly, but not before placing a kiss on Michael's palm. "Get dressed, Michael. Our time together is nearly over." "What? No! I'm here for forty days and forty nights! I've but spent one afternoon of that time!" Michael cried, shaking his head. Sir laughed softly. "Are you so quick to begin disobeying me, Michael?" Michael gasped and quickly shook his head. "No, Sir." "Good. Then get dressed. Our time is up. You should go home, Michael. Take what you've learned from me with you. Don't worry. I'm sure we'll meet again." Sir smiled at him again and winked, then left the room, leaving Michael alone. He didn't have a choice. His mission was to obey, and Sir had dismissed him. Michael's heart felt heavy as he forced himself to move. Rather than waste energy he doubted he had left, he summoned his armor from the front of the room and willed it onto his sore, well-used body. His wings shimmered into existence. He was ready to obey Sir, to leave, to go home. The last lesson, he realized, is the hardest one yet. Leaving. A new question blossomed in his mind. What of their connection? Now that Michael and Sir had learned the pleasures of each other's bodies, their souls should be connected. That was the way it worked with angels and their lovers. It was what had gotten Michael in trouble before, when he'd taken a human lover and spawned a line of Nephilm. He frowned, looking within himself, but couldn't feel any trace of Sir.


Perhaps The Boss had suspended that particular rule, since He was the one who'd sent Michael to Sir in the first place, and, being All-Knowing, would've known what was going to happen between them. Yes, that must be it, Michael thought. Michael took one last look around the room he knew he would never forget, closed his eyes, and went home. *** The Boss was waiting for him when Michael got back. "So soon? How did it go?"

Michael smirked, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. "My Lord, You know everything. You

already know how it went."

"Humor Me."

"I learned a valuable lesson. Thank You for sending me, my Lord. I learned to submit, to give

over to the care of someone else. It is a lesson I will always treasure." Michael paused, then

looked at God. "My Lord? Might I ask something?"

"Of course."

"Who was he? Who was Sir? I never learned his name."

God smiled and held out a closed hand to Michael. "Who, in all of My creation, is strong enough

to dominate you? I believe this will answer your question."

God opened his hand and lying on His palm was a small, black circle of leather.

Michael's lips curved in a knowing smile. "Yes, Sir."


Taste Test: Archangels Unleashed Copyright 2008 by Kiernan Kelly All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78685. Printed in the United States of America. ISBN: 978-1-60370-536-3, 1-60370-536-8 Torquere Press: Taste Test electronic edition / November 2008 Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78685


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