Chapter 11 #2
She swept him from tousled head to polished shoes, arching a brow at the vibrant rose-hued shirt paired with his cream summer suit. “I think you are not easy to miss.”
“Ah, but you saw me before I wanted to be seen, which is very rare a talent indeed.” He caught the ball, and this time tucked it into a pocket, pushing off the pillar to step toward her. “You sensed me.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, but he held up a hand.
“Don’t insult either of us by trying to lie to me. I know the touch of another sensitive mind when I feel it.”
Angela pursed her lips. “I wasn’t trying to.”
“I know. You have great power, but untrained as it is, you can’t control it.”
“Untrue,” she sniffed haughtily. “I am well trained.”
“You sought me intentionally?”
She hesitated. “Not at first, no.”
He grinned. “Then you were slacking.”
A hot flush stole across her cheeks. “I don’t think I can be expected to be on guard at all times.”
“But you must,” he stepped closer, and this time she did not back away.
Angela held herself straight and tall, refusing to be cowed. “And why is that?”
“Who knows what could be lurking, little mortal?” He leaned in, bringing his lips so close to her ear, warm breath tickled her skin as he spoke. “You could be snatched away in moments, and all because you let down your guard.”
She tensed but would not let him intimidate her. “You overestimate your ability.”
“Do I?” He leaned back, somehow giving her the most negligible space he could.
“Oh yes,” it was her turn to smile. “Even Gods have weaknesses, you see.”
“You know what I am?” A delighted spark lit behind his eyes, and it gave him an air of lightness that she found entrancing.
“I do.”
“Will you tell me what you are?”
“I will not.”
“What are you, Mama?”
He asked her every time, but Angela never gave her son a straight answer. Every time, she would squeeze him tightly in a hug or ruffle his hair lovingly and plant a kiss on his forehead.
“It doesn’t matter, Foster,” she would say. “Everything I have ever been pales in comparison to the most important thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Silly boy.” Angela would smile wide, twirling his hair around her finger. “The best thing I have ever been is your mother.”
He pouted. “That’s unfair.”
“You are a God,” she laughed shortly. “This entire encounter is weighted in your favor, and you speak of fairness?”
“I will have you know; I find equal footing to be an essential foundation of any relationship."
"We do not have a relationship,” she admonished him. “How very forward of you to presume such, from a simple conversation.”
“Even an acquaintance is a relationship,” he argued, “and I hope we could possibly even become friends.”
“I don’t even know your name.” And yet she was drawn to him, curiosity and attraction mingling in a heady combination.
“Yes, you do,” he said softly, and a certain sadness snuck into the edges of his smile. “My name is Lucifer.”
Angela blinked slowly. She did know him, if only through legend.
“The Morning Star,” she said, almost numb. Of all the Gods, this one was the most infamous.
“Now you know who I am, and here I know only that you are a very beautiful and unusually powerful mortal.”
“Perhaps I should maintain my brief moment of control,” she found herself smiling, his easy manner outweighing the shock of his pedigree. Besides, she had never put much stock in the rumors of Lucifer’s ‘evil’. She owed him quite a debt for her own lineage, in fact.
His eyes went wide, pleading with mock desperation, “Have mercy!”
“Hmmm,” Angela tapped her chin with a slim finger, as if weighing her options. “I suppose it would be unfair to withhold my name, especially with your proclamations for equal footing.”
“Precisely,” he nodded solemnly, but his grin was bright and eager.
“My name is Angela,” she smiled back, and extended her hand to him. “Angela Ortiz.”
He took it without hesitation, bringing the back of her hand to his lips for a courtly kiss. “As lovely a name as one so beautiful would be expected to bear.”
She laughed. “Are all Gods such blatant flirts?”
“Only when the woman is exceptionally intriguing,” he replied easily, and she felt her cheeks warming again.
“I hope I can live up to such high expectations,” she said.
“Oh, I expect you’ll exceed them.” Lucifer replied easily, extending his arm for her to tuck her hand into. “I have a very good feeling about you, you see.”
There must have been something to his intuition because they were married three years later.
It had cost Angela her family—unsurprisingly, they had not been enthused that she wanted to be with a Divine being—but they had been blessed with a son.
That son scowled now, struggling to rationalize his mother’s constant adoration for his father with the burning outrage he fostered.
He stopped short with a groan at his own unintentional pun, shaking his head.
“Stupid,” he muttered, kicking a rock along the sidewalk and into the gutter. “Dwelling on the past when there’s the present to worry about.”
He looked up, surprised to find he had reached his destination, navigating to the church on muscle memory while lost in thought.
Foster went up the steps and through the entry hall, glancing around and noting a few scattered visitors in various states of worship despite the odd hour.
It was a surprisingly good turnout for after sundown on a weekday, but there weren’t so many people that someone would be likely to notice his impromptu visit.
He cursed Judas’s name as he made his way through the building.
After the praeceptor had hemmed and hawed about giving Foster access to the Gospel of Lazarus, Foster had tried to let it go.
Gabe had a copy of his own, but he had always been reluctant to let Foster have it, and if the praeceptor wouldn’t give him access. ..Well, he’d have to trust his mentor.
But then his friend had shown up telling him that it was dangerous, and Foster needed to see the damn thing for himself. If he could just read through it, he could put his mind at rest that it was nothing nefarious, and he could get everyone off his back once and for all.
The praeceptor’s office was empty when he passed under the archway and peeked through the door, so he took a short flight of steps down to a lower level.
It was cooler down here, making Foster glad he’d worn his leather jacket and not something lighter.
The stairs let out into a pathway that looped around in a circuit of rooms, mostly storage or rooms used for meetings, prayer sessions, or the occasional party.
Foster went directly to a familiar door on the right marked ‘Archives’, and he gave the old knob a sharp twist and a firm yank to loosen the joint that always seemed to stick a bit.
He stepped into the dim room beyond, conjuring a small flame on the tip of his finger and using it to find the switch.
It took a moment for the weak incandescent bulbs to flicker to life, a few of them stubbornly refusing to conjure a spark in their old age.
Unsurprising. The archives were seldom traveled, so no one had really seen a need to update the lighting.
It was enough to see by at least, especially when Foster was blessed with far better senses than any mortal.
Unfortunately, that included his sense of smell, and his nose twitched violently in revulsion at the lingering scent of mildew.
There must have been a leak during the last big storm.
He wound his way through the room, slowly navigating the rows of books packed onto ancient wooden shelves, trying to determine which shelf was the right one.
Sliding his finger gently along the spines, he deciphered titles in Aramaic, Hebrew, Yiddish, Greek, and even Enochian.
Nothing. Nothing? How could there be nothing?
He turned back the way he came, looking again through every shelf.
It had to be here. He needed it to be here.
But it wasn’t. With a growl of frustration, Foster lashed out with his boot, kicking one of the shelves so hard it shuddered and threatened to topple. The damned old man was hiding it from him because of his stupid ‘moral reservations’—he must be.
Foster stormed out of the archive so recklessly that he nearly upended several shelves.
He dashed back down the hall and up the stairs, pushing out through the side exit door at inhuman speed.
He forcibly slowed his pace as he walked the path from the church to the parish housing, just in case any humans were around, then banged mercilessly on the ornate wooden door.
“Praeceptor! It’s Foster. I need a word,” he shouted, caring much less about those wandering human eye now. When no answer came, he slammed his fists harder into the door. He barely felt the wood give under his assault, even with splintering shards digging into his flesh.
“I’m coming,” he heard the old man’s tired voice as lights turned on inside. “I’m coming, dear boy.”
“’Dear boy’?” Foster echoed in a mocking tone with a scoff. “Don’t gimme that bullshit!”
The door swung inward, revealing Praeceptor Sceros clad in a robe as usual, but in this case it was a fluffy green housecoat and matching slippers.
His brown eyes were weary, blurred with sleep, and his silver hair was tousled where it usually laid slick back against his scalp.
For a half second, Foster felt guilty. Why was he here, disrupting the old man’s sleep, making a scene and—
“Is something the matter?” his soft, concerned tone made the younger man’s agitation flare in response.
“Yeah, something is the matter,” Foster snapped. “The Gospel of Lazarus isn’t in the archives.”
The old man tensed, then softened. “Foster, we spoke about this. I cannot—”
“Stop, just stop.” He raked his hands through his hair, then balled them into fists to steady them. “I brought you those diary pages in exchange.”