Angel Read online

  “Nothing that couldn’t wait until Monday.”

  “I wanted coffee, dammit!” Don felt himself flush again at his loss of control.

  Andras stared at him, expressionless, for far longer than was polite. “I’ll make you some coffee,” he said finally.

  Don let out a breath, and pulled out a chair.

  Andras’ lip quirked. “Not here. You can come to my place. It’s not far, as the angel flies.”

  Don almost walked out at that. But there was something in the hang of that dark head that convinced him to stay, to wait while Andras closed down the kitchen and locked the night’s meager takings in the safe.

  The drizzle had turned to rain now, and Don turned up his collar as they walked along the sidewalk dodging the drunks and the homeless. As always, their presence on the streets was like sandpaper on Don’s soul, reminding him that he didn’t do enough, could never do enough.

  “The poor will be always with you,” Andras muttered cynically.

  “What?” Don whirled to face him.

  “I’d have thought you’d be familiar with that one. You’ll notice he never says why. And yet you believe in a loving God.”

  “I believe that God has a plan for us all, even if we don’t understand it,” Don told him firmly.

  “I think I understand his plan for me,” Andras countered bitterly. “I’m to burn in Hell, to suffer everlasting torment.”

  “You can’t know that,” Don ventured.

  “I’ve had a taste of it already, don’t you remember? This is it.”

  Confused for a moment, Don belatedly realized that they’d reached Andras’ building. Conscience struck. “I—I shouldn’t come in. This is unprofessional.”

  “Scared I’m some kind of incubus, about to ravish you and seduce you from the path of righteousness? I’m only offering coffee. I’d swear on the Bible, but I’m not sure that’d end well.” There was a wry smile on Andras’ full lips.

  Don wished the feeling of light-headedness brought on by his disturbed nights would leave him, would let him think. It made sense, that a demon would be unable to touch the Word of God. But then, hadn’t Andras just quoted Scripture? There was something, he knew, about the Devil—the Prince of Lies—knowing the Bible and using it for his own ends.

  Did he truly believe Andras was Satan incarnate?

  No. He was a man. Every instinct within Don told him this. A man who was…tainted, somehow, perhaps.

  But still a man, nonetheless. And hadn’t Christ come to bring the message of salvation to all men?

  “No. I don’t think you’re evil,” Don told him, feeling a sudden rush of strength. “And I guess there wouldn’t be anything wrong with me coming in for coffee.”

  Andras gave him a searching look, then pushed open the street door, its lock broken. He led Don, via a dingy hallway and myriad flights of stairs stinking of garbage, to an apartment at the top of the building. It was cramped, mean and sparsely furnished, as was to be expected. There were no photographs upon the narrow mantelpiece.

  Don couldn’t think of a single thing to say about the place that wouldn’t be either patronising or a lie. “Is your mother…?”

  “She died. Liver failure. I forget where we were at the time.”

  A lie, Don thought. But an understandable one, coming from this man.

  “I’m sorry. I know I never met her—”

  “No. We didn’t stick around, after what happened.”

  “You went to live with your father?” Don asked artlessly.

  Andras angled his head strangely, and looked at Don. “Most people consider that a one-way trip.”

  “You’re saying your father is—was—”

  There was a bleak expression on Andras’ face as he stared out of the small window, bare of anything but a layer of grease and grime, that looked upon a litter-strewn back street. “I don’t know much more than you do. After my mother died, I found a birth certificate for her son, Michael.” He was silent for a moment. “There was a death certificate for him, too. Died, aged six months, of meningitis.”

  Don froze. “You think you’re-”

  “I think a bereaved mother will do anything to assuage her grief.” His eyes rose to meet Don’s, and Don was shocked to see the challenge and the hatred within. “Do you believe your God of forgiveness understands that?” Andras asked, his voice bitter.

  “Yes,” Don told him firmly. “Yes, I do. I believe—I believe your mother has been reunited with her son, now.”

  “And where does that leave me, then?” Andras asked.

  Don couldn’t answer. He was out of his depth here. He should never have come, he should have spoken to the church leaders, he should have—

  “Coffee’s ready,” Andras told him blandly.

  Don drank the coffee without tasting it, realizing it would most likely keep him awake tonight, when he so desperately craved sleep. But then again, at least he’d be spared the dreams.

  He should not have felt a pang of disappointment at the thought.

  “Come with me,” Michael said suddenly.

  Andras. His name was Andras. “Where?”

  “To the roof. Come on. The rain’s stopped now.”

  Mechanically, Don set his cup on the water-stained table and followed Andras out of the apartment. They climbed a narrow staircase, emerging through a warped and peeling door into a startlingly clear, starry night.

  As a child, Don had thought that on nights like this you could see all the way up to Heaven, if only you had enough faith.

  “Why did you bring me up here?” Don shivered in the night air. A prowling cat spooked at the sight or sound of them and hurtled away into the shadows.

  Probably feral, Don told himself. It would have run from anyone.

  “I like it up here. It’s why I chose this place.” Michael turned to Don with a teasing smirk. “Not scared of heights, are you?”

  “No. It’s just—”

  “It’s just that tall buildings and the mentally unstable don’t, in your opinion, generally mix well?”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy,” Don told him flatly.

  “No? You believe that I’m a demon, as I say. But do you really believe it? In your heart, in your mind, in your soul?” Michael’s mouth twisted. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those.”

  “I think, actually, theologians are divided on the question of whether demons have souls,” Don told him, fighting the urge to reach out to the man and then wondering why he did so.

  He had to stay professional, he reminded himself. That was why.

  “Ah, but it’s all a game to them, isn’t it, Donnie? A theoretical exercise in debate, like the one about the angels on a pinhead. They don’t think what they’re discussing is real, do they? Not like you do. You believe. So, Donnie, you won’t be shocked, will you, when I show you this?”

  Michael pulled off his T-shirt and strode to the edge of the roof. Don gasped and started forward instinctively. “You’re not going to do anything—my God, are those scars on your back?” Don hesitated to believe what the dim, borrowed light upon the roof seemed to reveal. It looked like Michael had been flogged, repeatedly. Some of the scars had faded to white, whilst others looked pinker, newer. Michael turned, and Don realized his chest was similarly marred. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Michael laughed. “Now come on, Donnie, you’re letting your naivety show. You’ve seen the file. I killed a man, remember? Breath play that went too far. But that’s not the only way I get my rocks off.”

  “You like being beaten?” Don knew these things happened, of course he did, but he couldn’t imagine what the appeal was. He felt a sudden hollow sensation in his gut. I killed a man. Had Michael done it deliberately, after all?

  If he’s a demon, he’s evil by definition.

  But then, it depended on whose definition you went by. “Did you mean for him to die?” he asked defiantly.

  Michael’s head was bowed, his fac
e almost hidden by that coal-black curtain of hair and the cloaking shadow it cast. “No,” he whispered. He looked up, suddenly. “But perhaps it’s in my nature to kill.”

  “No,” Don told him fiercely. He would not, could not, believe anyone beyond redemption. “Maybe you are a demon, but you live here as a man. I refuse to believe you don’t have free will, just like the rest of us.”

  “A man?” Michael’s smile was mocking, but there was despair in his eyes. He was standing right on the very edge of the parapet, now, his back to the ten-story drop. “Is this a man, Donnie?”

  Michael spread his arms out wide in a disturbing, no doubt deliberate echo of the crucified Christ. There was a ripping, tearing sound, and time seemed to slow as two great black wings—which Don would have sworn upon a Bible he’d seen no signs of only moments before—unfolded from his shoulders to spread wide and hang in the air, leathery and foul.

  “God,” Don whispered, horrified and yet enthralled.

  “Wrong answer,” came the taunting reply, as Michael leaned back and slowly toppled over the edge.

  Don rushed to the parapet, not knowing what he feared most to see. As he watched the dark shape circling, silhouetted against the streetlights below, Don found himself clutching at the brickwork for support, weak-kneed with relief , guilt—and horror.

  * * * *

  Back in his own home, Don eyed the bottle of Bourbon with distrust.

  He’d run blindly for the stairs, left Michael’s building, and hailed the first cab that passed, almost too incoherent to give the driver his address. When he’d reached his apartment, the bottle of Bourbon (do not drink only water, but take a little wine for your health, he’d quoted to himself with an edge of hysteria) had seemed like a lifesaver.

  Two glasses in and already the memory of Michael’s transformation was fading as his logical mind tried to convince him that he could not have seen what he had seen.

  What kind of Christian was he, who was given so clear a sign and yet did not believe?

  His sleep that night was restless, and he woke the next morning groggy and unrefreshed. Don hadn’t realized how much he hated Saturdays. No work, no Church—what the hell was Saturday for, anyway?

  Michael was probably working.

  Don was not going to go to the diner today. He was going to clean the apartment, shop for food…

  So why did eight o’clock that evening find him slumped in front of the sports channel, nothing achieved? Angry at himself, at Michael, at God, Don grabbed his jacket and left the apartment, slamming the door behind him. His feet remembered the way to Fourth Street.

  “Uh, is Michael in tonight?” Don asked the waitress at Nick’s Place. She showed no sign of recognizing him from the previous evening.

  “He don’t work Saturday nights. Just the daytime. Whaddaya think this is, a freakin’ sweatshop? You gonna order, or what?”

  “No thanks,” Don told her. He could feel her flipping him the bird as he walked out onto the street.

  When he got to Michael’s building, the street door still opened easily, but there was no answer to his knock on the apartment door.

  Obviously, Michael Andras had a life.

  Don headed home—what else could he do?—but when he got there, couldn’t settle to anything. He found himself flicking through the notes he’d made when doing his research into Michael’s…hobby. He’d found a list of BDSM clubs. Names, addresses, directions. It hadn’t been hard. So much information, just out there in the ether for anyone to find.

  One of the names, he’d recognised. Chains. The club where Michael had met the guy who’d died. Any other man, Don felt sure, would never set foot in the place again.

  Somehow Don knew that was where Michael would be tonight.

  He stood up, suddenly resolute, and looked down at himself. Casual button-down shirt and khakis. The sort of clothes he wore to church on Sundays. No. That wouldn’t do. There wasn’t a whole lot of scope in Don’s wardrobe, but he figured jeans and a tank top might just get him in the door. After a moment’s thought, he dove to the back of the closet and unearthed a battered leather biker jacket he’d bought from a thrift store when he was in his late teens. A youthful attempt to shout to the world hey, I may be gay and a Christian, but I can be cool, too.

  He studied his reflection in the mirror. A clean-cut, college-kid face gazed back at him awkwardly, looking absurdly uncomfortable above the unfamiliar clothes. He wished he hadn’t shaved this morning, but with his coloring, stubble never really showed anyhow. Should he do something about his hair? It looked too clean, too—

  Like an angel, Michael had said.

  Don decided to leave it. If he kept second-guessing himself, he’d never get anywhere.

  And he couldn’t stay here.

  * * * *

  It took an effort of will to stop his fingers drumming against his thighs as Don stood outside the club, steeling himself to walk up to the entrance.

  He expected to have to talk his way in; maybe bribe the guy on the door. He’d forgotten, for a moment, the effect his looks had on other gay men. It wasn’t fair, Don thought, that such a trivial thing as looks affected how the world treated you. It wasn’t right—but then, perhaps he should be thanking God for a face and a physique that opened doors instead of shutting them?

  Prayers of thanksgiving didn’t seem appropriate in a place such as this, though. It was dark in the club, stiflingly hot, and indistinct music throbbed out a sound that seemed to be all bass. Shadowy figures moved in the gloom, dressed in straps and studs and yes, chains, their clothing revealing far more than it ought. Eyes turned to follow him as he passed—were they checking him out? Or simply wondering what the hell he was doing here?

  Was this the sort of place Michael felt at home in?

  Don walked stiffly through the club, trying to ignore the scenes of debauchery to left and right of him. Yea, Lord, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil…The place was labyrinthine, with more than one room. Don wandered through them all, searching, trying to see only the faces of the men within.

  At the far end of the place, an iron staircase spiralled downwards, a roughly painted sign proclaiming that it led to the dungeon. Don trod down it, instinctively trying to muffle the clang of his footsteps.

  At the bottom, he halted, shocked beyond belief. Michael was in front of him, the centre of a small crowd of onlookers. Shirtless, he was strapped to some strange fixture that held his arms and legs outspread whilst a leather-clad muscle man beat him raw with a whip. As Don stood there, sickened, the lash flew through the air again with a swish and landed once more, sending droplets of blood to spatter on the floor.

  “NO!” he shouted, rushing forward, ignoring the mutterings and the outcry from the man wielding the whip. “Michael…” Don’s voice sounded strange, strained, in his own ears. “Michael, can you hear me?”

  The ice-cold eyes that turned upon him were blank, glazed. “Donnie,” Michael whispered.

  Frantically, Don worked at the straps that held Michael to that obscene gibbet. “It has to stop, I’m taking you home, you mustn’t come here anymore.” Don listened to his own voice with a strange detachment, not knowing what he would have done if Michael had resisted his efforts. He half-expected the club-goers to try to stop him, but they merely stood and stared, as if this were all part of the evening’s entertainment.

  As the last strap opened, Michael’s limp form slumped into Don’s arms, unexpectedly heavy. “I’ve got you, you’re safe now,” Don whispered, hoping he wasn’t lying. He half-led, half-carried Michael up the staircase and out of the club, uncaring whether the man’s bloody back was seen and remarked upon, wanting only to get Michael home.

  “Jacket,” Michael muttered, his voice hoarse and almost inaudible.

  “What?”

  “Give me your jacket, or we’ll never get a cab.”

  It wasn’t easy, stripping out of his jacket whilst still supporting his burden. And when
he placed the heavy leather around Michael’s shoulders, Michael hissed and almost cried out in pain.

  “We’ll be home soon,” Don reassured him, feeling inadequate.

  He’d never thought it could take so long to find a cab in the city on a Saturday night. But at last they were on their way back to Michael’s apartment. It was nearer than Don’s. That was important. Don’s hands were shaking as he turned Michael’s key in the lock.

  He helped Michael to the bed, and stood helplessly for a moment. The man’s back was a mass of cuts—where did one start? One simply starts, Don told himself, and went to explore the bathroom.

  There were basic medical supplies in the cabinet on the wall—did Michael usually do this for himself? Christ, the thought of him alone, dealing with so much pain…

  Pain he had sought, Don reminded himself.

  No. Surely no one sought out this kind of pain, except to mask a deeper hurt? Don was out of his depth, adrift in a sea of unknown currents. “Why?” he asked abruptly, aggressively.

  “Why?”

  “Yes, why. Why do you do this to yourself?”

  Unbelievably, Michael laughed. “Perhaps I’m a saint, seeking to mortify the flesh?”

  Don closed his eyes for a moment before he could respond. “You’re no more a saint than I am.”

  Why did Michael look at him so oddly?

  “Oh, I’m no saint, right enough.” He rolled over onto his side, grimacing, and started to get up.

  “You should lie down, let me deal with it—”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. The flogger’s designed that way. I’ll take a shower.”

  Don felt like an idiot as Michael pushed past him and into the bathroom, his movements only slightly stiff. “So why did you let me take you out of there?”

  Michael leaned on the door frame and looked back at him from under his dark curtain of hair. “You’ll figure it out,” he said, his tone amused. He unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down over his hips, suddenly, shockingly naked. There were more scars across his buttocks and legs, Don noted dumbly.

  When Don raised his eyes, he realized Michael had been watching him all the while, and flushed.