At least that was the way she wanted to think about it right now. For all his strength, his hands were gentle, curving into her hair, his weight on one arm so he didn't crush her. Then a puff of breath, a slight squeaking, and Anna was startled to see their cellar inhabitant peering over the edge of the bookcase at them. With a tentative glance at Jonah, it went over the wall and into the bed, tunneling thoughtfully under her head, giving her a pillow even as she sensed its desire was to be closer to the magic they were creating between them. Anna closed her eyes, turning her face into the creature's smooth and hairless skin, so soft it reminded her of a manta ray. She heard his small heart beat as Jonah surged deep inside of her. She raised her legs, opening wider, clinging to him as she began to cry out, her flesh rippling against him.
Of course she gave him the Joining Magic she could raise on her own, and tried not to let it pall the moment for her when, once again, he didn't make the same effort. He kept it all about the lust and passion he could offer her, which should be more than any female could ask.
Their cellar inhabitant helped her balance that disappointment, for remarkably she felt him expanding beneath them, the feathers, the soft body becoming more rubbery and flexible, until . . . Yes, it expanded until it reached all sides of the bookcase, making their bed into a downy water bed that moved like . . . the ocean, the rock of the sea, giving her comfort, soothing her.
Oh, Goddess. If they only knew how much she craved it . . .
"Thank you both," she whispered.
"It was his idea." Jonah smiled, though his eyes burned deep into her heart. "Come for me again, little mermaid. Move your body against mine like you do in the waves. Carry me to the ocean with you."
Seventeen
ANOTHER day. Maybe. Anna knew it was a bad sign that she was counting the minutes of every hour as a way of blocking out the fact that the final stage of the "mindmap" was entirely unclear on where Red Rock Schism would open to them.
All the specific instructions Mina had given seemed pointless torment. Or just plain torment. Travel by "Fate." Only travel by day, not by night, though traveling on foot in the desert during daylight had all the earmarks of idiocy.
Jonah, perhaps picking up on her growing agitation, mentioned what she already knew rationally. That this was the way magic worked. The Schism would open itself when they'd proven the sincerity of their intent. Following the odd instructions was part of honoring that intent.
When they passed the noon hour of the next day, they at last saw proof they were in close proximity to the Schism's energy signature. Though at first Anna privately worried that they might be seeing nothing more than heat mirages.
As they walked, in the shimmer of the sun on the horizon, they saw wavering illusions of unicorns, galloping through the dust. Dragons tipping their wings, giants moving ponderously. Perhaps even mammoths. She and Jonah made a game of what they might see next in the rolling clouds and heavy air currents. Then Mina's map confronted them with a steep formation of rock, and Anna's resolve flagged. Jonah helped her over the worst of it, telling her the view would be incomparable from the flat top, pointing out how the stratus of this particular rock made it look as if a rainbow were etched into its side. When he stopped several times and let her rest in the shadows, his expression getting more and more worried, she rallied enough to manage a wan smile and told him that walking was just far more strenuous than swimming, was all. Different muscles. And of course she was used to the water. She was fine. They were nearly there.
She hoped, by the Goddess. And she dreaded it, as well.
As the sun started to drop on the horizon, they came over the mountain and looked down into a dry river basin where it appeared a compass had been drawn out, a deep, wide circle of road bisected north to south and east and west. A man-made impression, but no sign of the men who'd made it. It had a good feeling to it, however, and Jonah decided they would rest beneath the stars in the center of it since unfortunately there was no real cover to be found.
As the cool desert air set in and his mermaid again did her short ritual with her seawater, Jonah sat nearby, watching her closely. She'd trudged along today, usually ten or twenty paces behind him, her head bowed beneath her floppy straw hat with her wilted cactus flower.
She'd said she wasn't used to the climate, walking this way mile after mile, and his human body felt some of the strain of that as well. While he'd indicated he could hear a lie just in the cadence of a person's voice, he couldn't hear one in hers, even though he'd asked after her well-being in several ways today. But something was off. It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps there was something in her unusual repertoire of magical abilities that might keep him from fathoming when she was possibly hiding things from him.
He wasn't going to push it right now. Not when she looked so exhausted. She hadn't lain down immediately, however. She'd eaten a light dinner of one of the sandwiches bought at the trading post, giving him half. He'd found he really didn't need food. His human self got hungry, but apparently the transition to angel at night fortified his system amply enough to carry him through the twelve hours as a human. He didn't mind sampling the different tastes, however, particularly the cookies she offered him. Or answering the bottomless well of her questions, which increased at night, like a favorite bedtime story that readied her for sleep.
"Lucifer's wings were black, and David's were light brown. Do all of you have different wing colors?" She was sitting cross-legged next to him now as he stretched out to gaze up at the stars. Jonah noted she'd snagged some of his down feathers that had fallen out as part of his transition back to angel tonight. She was wearing several of them in her hat and working others among the branches of a scrub bush.
"Not all different colors, but different patterns." He studied the movement of the constellations, his fingers locked behind his head, amused as she tucked several feather tips under his buttock to hold them in place against the nighttime breeze while she decorated the bush. "Certain functions or groups have things in common. You can identify an angel's position, rank, age, all by the colors, pattern and shape of his wings."
"Why do humans think they're white, then?"
"Messenger and guardian angels, the ones most likely to be seen by humans, typically project what they're comfortable seeing."
"So they do pure white, not like yours, with the silver tips?"
"No. That pattern is unique to me." He ran a finger along the edge of the feather she was holding, the diagonal line of the silver. "What are you doing now?"
"I thought I might decorate this shrub with some of your feathers, and then, just like the compass, or whatever it is, it will be something for the next traveler to marvel at."
He knew most of the feathers would disintegrate at dawn, but he liked watching her doing it. But within a few moments, she lay down on his chest, and watched the ones she hadn't used tumble with the night breeze across the compass etched in the dense sand, paving the road with flecks of white and silver, like a reflection of the stars above.
It occurred to him they would also be leaving a trail, but they were so far from where they'd been. Still . . .
Gently moving her aside, Jonah got up, searching the night. Turning, he caught it again. A flash of light. Narrowing his gaze, he focused, then relaxed. Somewhat. Man-made.
Anna had come to stand beside him, looking. "It looks like a radio tower."
"Want to go see what it is? It might have a building."
She looked alert and interested, so he was pleased to offer her something to perk her up. She nodded.
"Want a lift?" He spread his wings invitingly.
"I guess we won't attract too much attention if we stay close to the ground. Do you think you can . . ." She hedged, apparently trying to be mindful of his wing injury, but he could tell she was delighted at the thought. He lifted himself a few feet off the ground.
"I think we can. Put your arms around my chest, your foot on my foot. Short, horizontal lift only."
>
He felt a bit of strain in the one wing on liftoff, but that was all. Once the air got under him, it felt almost as effortless as normal, giving him a lift in spirits as well.
"Can you fly into outer space?" she asked against his skin, her body warmly pressed against his groin and thighs. "I don't mean right now, but usually."
"Yes. Among asteroids and planets. Circle the moon and come back. I'll bring you a moon rock if you want."
She smiled, and tilted her head back to meet his gaze, her hair streaming out, swirling around them with the air currents. Jonah reached down and touched her face, traced her lips with his thumb, and thought how he'd like to take her that high, to places that fired her imagination.
They had to gain some height to get over the next rock formation. It was too small to be called a mountain, but a little more substantial in width and breadth than what they'd crossed earlier. But he managed it, and heard her indrawn breath at the stunning landscape of volcanic craters and rock formations that expanded for miles around them, like the surface of a different planet in truth. He could see it as if it were daylight. Full of smoky grays, deep reds, rose hues now giving way to the brilliant, deep midnight blue of the night sky, the jeweled stars and a heavy moon sitting low over it all, the embodiment of the great Mother.
Despite himself, he hovered there a few minutes, letting himself look as much as Anna, feeling a tightness in his chest, a whisper of the things he'd always known, never doubted. Things he was doubting now, isolating himself from them.
Slowly, he descended, and a few minutes later landed them about a hundred yards away from what was indeed a radio station. A four-wheel drive was parked out front, battered but tough-looking, like a tank, weathered and proven in this environment.
Standing out back, smoking a cigarette, was a man in his fifties, startling them both.
"I didn't suspect it would be manned," Anna whispered. "I assumed it would just be a relay tower or something. What should we do?"
Jonah kept a protective step in front of her. Oddly, the man didn't look at all surprised to find an angel landing on his back doorstep.
For a moment, they just studied one another. The man had tidy dark hair, a white cotton shirt and brown slacks. He wore comfortable loafers and seated next to them was a pair of small dogs. At the sight of Jonah's wings drawing in to his sides, they backed up into the open door, but did not bark.
"That was some stunt," the man said at last. "But I already have my guest lineup for the Are There Really Angels? segment. Don't see why you can't come in and listen to the show for a while, though. Desert hospitality and all. I can at least applaud the effort with some air-conditioning and a beer. I've also got an excess of food if you'd like some."
He crushed out the cigarette and pocketed it. Unconcerned by their lack of response, he shouldered in the door, then turned his attention back to Jonah. "You didn't fly that rig all the way from L.A. or one of those other places where people have more ideas than sense, did you?"
Anna covered her mouth to hide her chuckle. "He thinks you're trying to get on his talk show," she murmured to Jonah. "He's a radio host. Do you want to go now?"
"No." Jonah studied the radio towers. "Let's get you a safe place to rest a bit. There are few coincidences that strong. I think we should go in and meet him."
Travel by Fate . . . He was gaining a grudging respect for the witch and wondered at the true scope of her power. Or if Mina herself even knew what it was.
While he kept all his senses honed as they approached, it was quite obviously just the man and his two dogs inhabiting the radio station, which, while small, had an impressive garden of antennae and satellite dishes.
Jonah put a reassuring hand against Anna's back and followed her in, folding his wings in a tight overlap to manage the door. It was an automatic gesture for him, like folding his arms, but he was glad to feel a lesser twinge from the one wing than he'd expected. It was definitely getting stronger.
The talk show host had stopped to watch him, and his brow creased. "You're well practiced--I'll give you that. You're welcome to leave them outside, though."
"I'll keep them with me," Jonah said, unperturbed, while Anna hid another smile.
"Suit yourself, but be warned, it's a bit cramped in here. Come on in to the studio. I'm running a pretaped show on extraterrestrial sightings right now. Won't be starting up the angel segment until past midnight."
Jonah noted the art on the walls ran to numerous photos, news clippings and articles pinned up randomly, covering all manner of non-mundane topics, from aliens to global warming theories, to angels and the origins and geographical location of Hell.
One of the articles had a photo of their host, probably from five years earlier. Randall Myers. It indicated he'd left a popular station management position to be a talk show host on an independent air-wave, a show which focused on the inexplicable, theories that were mostly scoffed at. The boogeyman in the closet, the existence of dragons . . .
"What would you like? Out here, it's usually water that's preferred. And I've got some day-old pasta my wife made."
"Give it to her." Jonah nodded to Anna. "I'm fine. And you eat it," he added before Anna protested. "You're looking pale, and you know I don't need it."
When she subsided without further argument, that concerned Jonah more. Here where the light was fluorescent, for the first time he noticed the things the glaring sun, the artful shadow of her hat, or the nighttime darkness could hide from him. Her skin was looking damn near transparent, the blue veins close to the surface. Her lips were cracked, the inner membranes of her eyes red. He could tell the shape of her skull, the hollow slope of cheekbones in a way that was alarming.
Randall's face creased in concern as he apparently noted the same things Jonah did. "You shouldn't be bringing someone in a fragile condition out here, just to get your ten minutes of fame."
"He's not--"
"I know that," Jonah interrupted her, giving her a quelling look. "I take responsibility for her well-being. We're not here for your show, Mr. Myers." Having made his assessment of the man, not just from the articles and evidence of his personality scattered about the studio, which was obviously the center of his existence, Jonah had no concern about speaking frankly to him. "We're traveling along the Schism, looking for a gateway into it. Do you know how close we are?"
"Why do you think I know about the Schism?"
"It's here." Jonah indicated the wallpaper of clippings.
"There's no article about the Schism up there."
"Exactly." Jonah showed his teeth. "You study the theories of all things outside the known world, air them, talk to a mixture of the wishful thinkers and the true thinkers, but you don't expose the sacred in your own backyard. You cut a very careful, close circle around it, and it leaves an outline."
"You're a hell of a speed reader." When Randall took a seat in his chair, his dogs hopped onto the sofa beside Anna and eyed the food she was eating. He laced his fingers across his stomach and leaned the wheeled chair back on its stem. Lights winked behind him on the control board. "The Schism is important. I've never seen it, but I know that much. You're still a good fifteen miles from where it's reported to have opened in the past. Not that that means much. You doing it on foot?"
"Possibly. We're required to travel by Fate . . . by chance."
Randall grunted. "Like most sacred places, can't be reached the easiest way."
"Dumb rule," Anna muttered with a tired sigh. Jonah watched, momentarily fascinated as she sucked a stray noodle into her mouth and self-consciously reached for a napkin when she saw him looking.
You're the first purported 'nonhuman' I've entertained out here." Randall's face creased into a wry smile. "Though I could have sworn a couple of my past guests had done enough recreational drugs to have mutated into alien life-forms."
"Who said we aren't human?" Anna chuckled. She rose, swaying a little, and gave the dogs the remains of the bowl. "That's much better. Thank you. W
e should leave you to your show."
"Stay a little while." Randall waved. "You can nap on the couch and your silent companion here can snort with derision at my call-in questions on angels. Stay," he repeated. His attention shifted to Jonah. "The girl needs some rest."
"I am right here," she mentioned to them both.
Jonah held Randall's gaze. "We'll stay," he said.
DESPITE the exasperated face she made, Anna did not seem unhappy with the decision. Jonah put her further at ease by taking a seat on the couch and getting her to settle her head on his thigh. Her body curled inside the curve of his arm and wing while he listened to Randall whittle down the long hours of the night with angel theory. At one point, when he shifted, he found the two dogs had arranged their small bodies inside the curve of his wing as well, weighing down the tip end, an act which caused a bemused expression on Randall's face.
"Angels. Stories of rescues, attacks . . . seduction. Folks, it seems that there's a tremendous desire to believe they are here among us. Maybe to kindle hope, but hope for what? Proof of an afterlife that has a recognizable order, a legion of staff, so to speak? Or just a sense of higher meaning and purpose, proven by the existence of beings more advanced than ourselves? Perhaps, dear listeners"--Randall's deep, melodious voice reached out through the night--"hope and faith ultimately reside in yourself. We are the cells. If we fail, perhaps whatever we wish to call God also fails. Perhaps we're more of an interdependent relationship than we know, and that's why angels might walk among us, trying to keep the cells healthy, eradicate the cancer before it becomes fatal and destroys the whole body . . . that which we call God."
Jonah's brow creased as Randall got on the conference line with a philosopher and a biblical scholar, let them debate the symbolic versus the religious overtones of angels. Then he took calls from people who were sure angels had been active in their lives.