Solomon was very thorough with the magick he employed.” And Simeon had held up his right hand, showing off the silver ring that adorned his finger, the one that gave him control over God’s winged messengers.
The angel had continued to struggle, attempting to disappear from view, but the magick of the ring kept him there.
“Why are you here?”
“I was drawn to your emotion,” the angel spoke haltingly, as if trying not to speak, but the words forced their way out anyway.
“My emotion?” Simeon had begun to pace amongst the chairs that had been set up for those who would come to pay their respects.
“I have never sensed anguish so vast,” the angel had said. “Sorrow so deep. It drew me to you.”
Simeon remembered smiling with little humor. “Let’s say I’ve had ample time to accrue more than my fill.”
The angel had looked at him strangely then, tilting his head in that birdlike fashion they had a tendency to do. The Heavenly creature had yet to realize what he was actually dealing with.
“And you came to me to do what exactly?” Simeon had asked. “Soothe a troubled nature with a divine touch upon my furrowed brow?”
“I certainly could bring you some peace—yes,” the angel had agreed.
Simeon had laughed, a short barking sound. “It would take far more than that to assuage my tortured feelings,” he’d said with a snarl. “In fact, I doubt that all in Heaven could quench my wrath.”
He had walked toward the angel then, weaving his way through the chairs, feeling the rage growing within him—a rage that could never be satisfied. For he had been denied the joy of Heaven, had had it painfully snatched away as he was returned to a life eternal by the touch of the holy man from Nazareth.
“I am an emissary of God; let me help you . . . ,” the angel had stammered.
But Simeon had simply raised a hand, cutting off the angel’s words. “Bleed for me,” he’d said.
The angel had tilted his head left, then right. “I don’t . . .”
“Bleed for me,” Simeon had repeated, putting the power of Solomon’s ring behind each word.
The angel had struggled, but it was all for naught. The winged messenger of God extended one of his long, muscular arms, pulling back the diaphanous sleeve of his shirt to expose the pale, marblelike flesh, his gaze begging the forever man to reconsider.
But what would have been the fun in that?
Reaching across with his other hand, the angel had begun to dig the razor-sharp nails on his fingers into the exposed arm, grimacing as he ripped bloody furrows in the bare white skin.
“Isn’t that something,” Simeon had said, placing his hand beneath the drips of blood raining down from the wounds.
“Why?” the angel had asked pathetically.
And again, Simeon had given him that humorless smile, recalling a similar question he himself had asked of the Son of God so very long ago.
“To show that I could.”
A sound from the entrance to the room had distracted them then, and Simeon had turned to see the undertaker standing there.
“I thought I heard voices in here,” the middle-aged man had said, not yet noticing that he was in the presence of the divine.
Simeon watched his face, waiting for it to sink in.
“Oh my,” the undertaker had said dreamily, his eyes fixed upon the winged being.
“Be not afraid.” The angel’s voice had sounded like the first notes of the most beautiful of songs.
“Oh no,” Simeon had said, his gaze going from the angel to the undertaker. “I think he should be afraid.” He’d strode over to the man, raised his hand, and wiped the blood of an angel on the undertaker’s cheeks.
The man had simply stood there, stunned beyond movement. “Please . . . ,” he’d managed.
Simeon looked back to the angel. “You heard the man,” he’d said. “He’s begging you.”
The angel had tensed, his wings flapping furiously as he’d tried to shrug off the spell that had hold of him.
“Do it,” Simeon had commanded. “Kill him.”
And the angel had flown across the room, pouncing upon the defenseless undertaker, tearing him apart in a show of preternatural strength.
That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship between Simeon and Satquiel.
A friendship that had continued to this day.
• • •
“To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” Simeon asked the angel Satquiel, crossing his legs as he reclined comfortably in the wingback leather chair. He held a snifter of brandy, moving his wrist in such a way that the caramel-colored liquid