Chapter 3 #2
Mags laughed and rolled onto her back, looking up at his ceiling.
They had painted it some decades ago; a parody of the Sistine Chapel with the cherubs all bearing the faces of their friends.
Instead of Jehovah and Adam, Christos had insisted they insert themselves, reaching across the space to brush fingertips.
The longing in their painted expressions sent a warm pang of affection through her, tightening her throat and lungs. She turned back to lay facing him, head pillowed on her folded arms. “You’re the sweetest.”
“Only the sweetest?” He pouted. “Not the funniest, or smartest, or most handsome?”
“All that and more,” she acquiesced, tapping his nose with the tip of her finger. “Now where is my gift?”
He smiled and reached over her to his nightstand, rummaging briefly in the drawer. Mags breathed in his cologne, a fresh and earthy mix of sage, mint, and smoked cedar. To be here with him, wrapped in his arms and his scent... It felt like comfort and home.
“Here it is,” he muttered triumphantly, and pulled back to present her with a finely carved wooden lily. It was delicate and beautiful; its stem painted a deep green, the gently curling petals painted white with a deep red center spreading upwards. “I know you’ve always been fond of lilies.”
“White lilies symbolize purity,” she murmured, heart pounding in her chest and tears threatening to spill. “And red symbolizes romantic love.”
“I know.” Christos smiled at her, and it made Mags smile back reflexively.
The way he looked at her, like she was the most precious thing in the world... it was equal parts gratification and torture.
“You shouldn’t have made this for me.”
“I would do anything for you, my flower.” He brought his hand up to stroke her cheek gently. “You need only say the word and I’m yours to command.”
“And who is a whore to command the Prince of Heaven?” Mags sighed, and her smile faded away as she pulled away from him and rolled onto her back.
“This same sadness,” Christos watched her with sad eyes and spoke with a soft and soothing tone. “Your past doesn’t define you, Mags. You’re more than the names you’re called by cowards and ignorant fools.”
“You’ve been telling me the same thing for centuries.” She swallowed hard. “You’re right, as usual. You’ll have to forgive my mood, it’s been…a difficult day.”
“Tell me what’s troubling you,” he urged, reaching to pull her in with arms made strong by physical labor, folding her snugly against his chest. Her head tucked neatly under his chin, and she giggled when his close-cropped beard tickled her face. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s fine,” she brushed off his apology. “It’s nice to feel normal right now. It’s helping.”
“What happened? You know you can tell me anything.”
So, she told him; about the terrible, disjointed vision that had wrenched her from a deep sleep and left her retching into her trash bin for hours, about Luce’s naked grief, her memory of Christos’s words to her so long ago, and about their desperate hope Jehovah would choose to help.
“Okay,” Christos said carefully when she had finished, wiping fresh tears from her cheeks with gentle, calloused fingers. “When I said anything, I wasn’t expecting that. I was hoping it was more along the lines of a broken scrying basin—I could fix that much more easily.”
She made a muffled noise into his shirt but said nothing.
“Mags,” he said, scratching at his beard—a sign of his anxiety, she knew. “You know he’ll never agree with this.”
“I know.”
“What you’re suggesting…”
“I know.” She was regaining her composure now, and with it her resolve. She saw Luce’s pained and broken expression whenever she closed her eyes. “But I have to try.”
“You’ll have more success if you can sway Gabriel to your side.” He spoke with the air of someone who knows he’s wasting his time.
He was right. “No,” she said flatly.
“My father highly values his opinion.”
Mags scrunched up her nose. “I’d rather claw my scars open than go crawling to that slime for help.”
“Come on, he’s not so bad.”
“Christos, I say this with love, but you and your father are the only ones blindly loving enough to feel that way.”
She couldn’t stand Gabriel, and she wasn’t alone in that feeling. He was the epitome of a whiny, snooty suck-up. His unparalleled bootlicking had made him the butt of many jokes, while his barbed responses had made him many disgruntled, reluctant acquaintances and few friends.
“Blind love is better than blind hate,” Christos took up their familiar argument.
“And both are blind,” she supplied her line easily, then switched tactics. “Besides, Gabriel isn’t the only favored advisor your father has.”
“Michael.”
“He’s always been my favorite. Much more honorable—and tolerable—than Gabriel.”
“You’re very biased,” Christos pointed out mildly, but with no real conviction.
He also considered Michael an ideal standard to compare other Seraphim to.
The man was intense as he was reserved, but he had a wise mind, kind eyes, and open heart.
It would be difficult to find a better friend or ally.
Mags grinned. “Indeed I am. I saw Michael entering the chapel on my way here, so I’ll have to occupy myself for some time. Kiss me awhile before I go to save the world?”
He grinned like a little boy receiving a brand-new toy. “Didn’t I already tell you your wish is my command?”
As he tilted her chin to claim her lips, another knock sounded at his door. Christos frowned as Mags sat up, looking curiously toward the sound.
“Jesu?” A woman’s voice called, soft and lilting even as she raised it to be heard over the music. “Jesu, I’d like a word, if you have a moment?”
Christos sat up now too, silencing his stereo with a lazy wave. “Come inside, mother.”
Mags quickly arranged her skirt, smoothing wrinkles and tucking the fabric neatly around her legs, which she crossed at the ankle. She kept her hands folded demurely in her lap, gently cradling her gift.
The door opened to reveal a tall, stately woman who bore a striking resemblance to her son.
Thick, dark hair cascaded down her back, bound in golden cord to keep it neatly tucked away from her beautiful face.
Her features were striking, with proud cheekbones and full lips arranged in perfect proportion beneath the same wide, brilliant amber eyes she had passed on to her son.
A finely crafted silk dress wrapped her slender figure in a vision of champagne and cream that was more a work of art than garment.
Mags fought back the familiar burn of inadequacy that always threatened to choke her when she saw the Queen. How could she ever hope to compare to such regal elegance, such perfection? She would never be Christos’s equal the way Queen Mary was so finely matched to her husband, Jehovah.
“Forgive me.” The Queen hesitated in the doorway as her eyes landed on Mags, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t mean to interrupt; I was unaware you had company.”
Mags gripped her carved lily tight enough that the edges of the wood dug into her palms. She knew how it must look to find them here, on the bed in his room, with sensual music playing in the background.
Though she knew that they were well within their rights to behave however they chose, it didn’t make her feel any less violated as she considered all the torrid scenes the Queen could be imagining.
“You needed to speak with me?” Christos kept a tight rein on his tone, aiming for light and indifferent, but Mags could discern the subtle undercurrent of embarrassment there. Despite all his posturing with her, Christos was quite shy.
“It is a matter of no consequence,” the Queen deferred. “I can return later, if I’m interrupting your time together.”
“I was just leaving,” Mags interjected, rising quickly from her tense perch on the edge of the mattress. “I have plans to meet with Michael and only stopped here on my way.”
Queen Mary eyed her curiously, a small smile gracing her full lips. “I would be pleased to escort you, Lady Mary. We see each other so rarely these days, it would be a wonderful chance to catch up.”
“But I thought -” Christos began, and his mother shushed him.
“We will speak later, Jesu. I’m much more interested in speaking with your lovely girlfriend.”