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"Homeless? Bad things happen, no matter your looks, though they helped keep me out of some tough spots. In a good way," she added quickly. "I never got that desperate, but I was close when he found me. He offered to take me then and there with him to the Grand Canyon, teach me how to be a carpenter, give me a trade. And I trusted him from the beginning, big brute though he is. I knew he wouldn't hurt me. There's just . . . something, sometimes. It's like you're inside their head the second you meet. Not like you know everything about them, but you care so much about them immediately, you want to know it all, the little and the big."
Despite the fact there was an angel sitting on her front steps, his wings arched and trailing across the boards so Matt had accidentally trod on the tip at least once with his boot, Maggie only had eyes for the broad-shouldered man in the flannel shirt. It made Anna like her even more.
"He was so honorable. Almost too honorable." She slanted another mischievous look at Anna. "Despite him deciding we belonged together awfully quick, and using those looks of his shamelessly to convince me of it, I had a time getting him into bed with me. But when I did, holy God." She put a hand on her chest while Anna chuckled. "And since there's an angel of God in the house, I've no worries saying it that way, because I do mean it as divine praise. He was worth the effort. Much as I suspect that one is."
Anna nodded. "I'll miss him when he's gone."
Maggie got quiet beside her, but her fingers remained on Anna's shoulder, stroking as Anna felt it tremble through her, the first time she'd said it out loud.
"Sometimes things you don't expect can . . ."
"No." Anna said it with a strained smile. Kept her eyes on the two men below. "This is how it is. Be glad Matt's only a man, Maggie. You can't keep an angel."
Twenty-one
AFTER Matt and Maggie went to bed, Anna stayed up with Jonah as long as she could, watching the stars over the desert, the silhouettes of the rock formations in the distance, the play of moonlight on the cactus and tufts of sage dotting the landscape. She leaned against him, saying little, surrounded by the curve of his wing. They made love on the porch again, her fingers buried in his feathers, face pressed into his neck to muffle her cries.
But the closer dawn came, the heavier the weight on her heart grew. So much so she wondered that Jonah was able to carry her so easily up to the guest bedroom Maggie and Matt had given them. She opened up to him again there, feeling his body press her into the mattress, fiercely willing him to impale her deeper, fill every empty part of her, keep her from flying into a million desolate pieces.
The arrival of the faint sliver of sun on the horizon was a shining, sharp blade that could cut her wide-open. Between the weight of her heart and the pain of that sunlight, she could barely breathe, watching it come up.
She told herself she needed to be rational. She'd known this was coming. He'd been a part of her life for only a week, so the loss of him in her daily life was something that would ease in time, the vestiges of first love becoming a soft, pleasant memory.
It was a lie that she would make into truth, by saying it over and over. In a million years, she might believe it.
Now she turned and faced him, to find her angel's eyes were open, studying her. They'd drifted off a bit, that last time, and so she wondered how long he'd lain there awake. She knew angels didn't need much sleep, but she wondered if they really needed any. There were many things she hadn't asked him, that she'd just have to wonder.
His wings were gone. Because of that, when he reached between them and lifted a long wing feather he'd somehow managed to keep from disintegrating with the spell, she had to bite back tears. Memories didn't disintegrate, she told herself. She agreed with Maggie, that they were too rich and powerful to ever wish away. It was the only treasure of him she could have. This, and a feather.
The tears were coming, and she couldn't stop them. When she would have turned away, his hands settled on her shoulders to ease her up against his chest. He held her there, let her cry.
He didn't say anything, made no assurances or platitudes, simply kept her from breaking apart. This was not the first time life had seemed intolerable. It didn't often overwhelm her. She didn't let it take her over like this, so when it did, it hit hard. And for some reason, this time hit harder than anything she'd ever felt.
Reconciled since the beginning to the knowledge that she would die young, never have a family except in the most peripheral sense. She knew that her life had started bathed in her mother's blood . . . All that meant nothing compared to this. Oh, she might see him again, but it wouldn't be the same. He'd be an angel in the sky who might deign to stop and gaze upon her fondly, or say a kind word to her . . . and that would be almost worse than death.
Until now she'd never had a reason to be glad her life would be short.
"Sshh . . ." he said softly into her hair, not to silence her, she knew, but as a sound of comfort.
How will I bear it? How can I bear it? But she would, because if he was restored to himself, if the heavens shone brighter because Jonah was repairing rifts and fighting back the darkness without, the darkness within him purged, she could bear it.
Her life would mean something. It would not have been hopeless, and therefore whatever might come after that would be all right.
At length, she pressed her forehead to his chest, then her lips to the same spot. "We should feed you breakfast before you go."
"No." He sat up, drawing her with him, still holding her in his arms, across his lap now. "I have a feeling today's journey is better done on an empty stomach. I want you to go back to sleep, little one. You're still drained from yesterday, and still too far from the ocean. Underground enchanted spring or not, you need to conserve your strength. I've sent a summons to David to come for you today."
"Not until nightfall," she said, gripping his arm. "Let me stay here for the day. I'd . . . I'd like to get to know Maggie better."
It was true, but such a small part of it that she couldn't meet his gaze. She looked down, worrying the covers inside his armspan until he gave her a squeeze, kissed the side of her neck, a soft brush of firm lips. "All right then, but don't push it. Whatever I'm meant to face today, I'll face easier knowing you're back safely in your ocean."
While she sensed he was curious about what that challenge might be, he didn't seem apprehensive or overly eager. Not that she'd expected him to be. He was going to see it through, if for no other reason than that was what she'd asked him to do, the mermaid who'd saved his life.
That was okay. She'd gotten him here. That was all she could do, right? She'd wanted to go on with him, even into the Schism, but not only had Jonah adamantly refused to let her go farther with him, Matt said Sam specifically had instructed Anna to stay behind.
"S
ing yourself to sleep, Anna," Jonah said, laying her back down on the mattress, spreading her hair out on the pillow with caressing fingers, his dark brown eyes dwelling on her face, committing her to memory, she thought. Hoped.
"What? I've never done that before."
"I know. You told me that. But I want you to try now. Sing to yourself of the dreams you have, the beauty of flowers, and butterflies . . ."
"Of angels," she whispered, reaching up to touch his face. "I love you, Jonah. You don't . . . I'm not asking you for anything, but will you remember that one thing about me, when you think of me now and again?"
He studied her, a frown appearing between his eyes. "Anna, I'll see you again."
Anna bit down on her trembling lip, because she knew he wouldn't be coming back. Even if he himself didn't know it. If the shaman was successful, coming back to her would just be awkward, and painful. The extraordinary magic that had brought them together would no longer be needed, and would therefore no longer exist. Her purpose would be over, and he would be needed in the skies. She wouldn't contemplate what would happen if the shaman was unsuccessful. "I know. It will just be different. But a good different. Strong and beautiful, restored in your heart and soul, so every heart and soul in the whole world will feel it and rejoice when you're healed . . ."
She began to sing of that before he could say anything else. A soft whisper of notes, about a land that was dark. It was the terrain of his soul, until light came, and it was good. That soul, looking around, was so pleased with its world it began to create. Landscape it with flowers, trees, lakes, streams, mountains and animals of all kinds, all things that inspired joy and imagination, all of it for love . . . He would remember it all, why life was worth living . . .
