"It's a little late at night for a swim," I note, my Italian flawless. "The water's terribly cold, I hear."
She grips the gargoyle perched on the edge of the bridge with white-knuckled fingers.
"Who are you?"
The fear in her voice is sweeter than the tinkling of crystal bells. I smile amicably.
"Your very best friend at the moment. Won't you come down and talk to me?"
"What do you want with me?"
I laugh heartily.
"Oh, your eyes are big as saucers, darling. Stop that, it just kills me. I'm not going to eat you." I extend a gentlemanly hand. "Let me help. Those rocks are slick with moss. I would hate to see you take a nasty tumble."
Her lip quivers and she breathes out shakily, but finally she gives in. Her cold, slim fingers encircle my own and allow her memories to flood my consciousness. The angels will tell you all sorts of things about the 'power of prayer' and 'metaphysical intimacy', but there's nothing quite like skin-on-skin. The fuse ignites between us and I am suddenly swimming in her thoughts, dreams, and sorrows. I break the connection after only a moment; any longer and she may have picked up on mine. And trust me when I say, that is an awkward conversation you never want to have.
"You couldn't possibly intend to do what I think you meant to, little one?"
She tries to protest, but her spirit is already weakened and my, let's admit it, utterly infamous charm tips her over the edge. She dissolves into sobs. I enfold her in my arms, lying my chin on her head as if I actually care, and she hugs me back as if I weren't a total stranger. I realize this sudden surrender of self seems unrealistic, but I've always had a penchant for gaining the confidence of humans. Look at Eve. I barely got a word out before she was at my feet, crying her eyes out. Basketcase. It was too easy.
"Tell me why," I urge, already knowing the answer.
"My parents," She begins awkwardly. "…Are very controlling. They don't like me to leave the house, don't like me to see anyone. But there was a man..A street musician. I loved him."
"But he left you?"
She nods, pressing a trembling hand to her stomach. "Yes. Left me. With child. If my parents find out…"
"They'll kill you," I finish, filling in the blanks with the words of the countless teenage runaways who have unfolded their woes to me. They don't think they're talking to anyone, rather to the dwindling bottle or the pills in their hand, but I am god of some things, and I hear their prayers.
"Terminate the pregnancy," I urge. "There's no harm in it. They never have to know."
She shakes her head firmly. "I don't have any money-" I'm reaching into my pocket to pull out a wad of counterfeit hundreds when she finishes. "-And I won't live while my child dies."
I make an exasperated sound more befitting of sixteen year old girl. Damn moral elitist.
"Well…Perhaps there are things in this world too terrible to bear after all. But if you don't mind me asking, isn't there something your life worth living for? Something…Out of the ordinary?"
For a moment she says nothing, as if thinking. "There is one small thing…"
I want to crow in triumph. Good little songbird. Sing your confessional out to me so I may be done with you and go home.
"I've heard killing oneself is an unforgivable sin"
I about blast her ass with Hellfire right then and there. Instead I manage a polite,
"Excuse me?"
"When I was a child, the nuns would take the schoolchildren to mass. I adored it. I felt loved there. Even if I had to go home to my parents, I knew that there was Someone who was looking out for me, would always care for me."
"Where is He now?" I ask flatly. "He has deserted you in adulthood like the dreams and myths of youth."
"Perhaps. But it was so strange…When I was looking into the water, I suddenly remembered. I hadn't thought about church for years. I was only a child then, but suddenly I remembered what one of the nuns told us. That suicide was the most terrible sin, because it was destroying God's greatest creation. It sounds insane, but when I stood there I could swear I heard my name on the wind, as if someone was calling to me."
"You are insane," I mutter. "Bonkers. Daft. Go jump in the river."
She laughs, a thin thread of hope worming into her voice and clutching my heart with icy fingers of dread. That is not where I want this conversation to go.
"Perhaps I am. Or maybe I did hear it. Wouldn't you regret it, though? Not knowing for sure if there were a God?"
"Only one way to find out," I say brightly, as if talking to a six year old. My meaning makes a slight whistling sound as it flies over her head.
She turns to me, some holy spark lighting her eyes. "A\n hour ago, a doctor confirmed I was pregnant, and I ran out of the clinic blindly without looking back. I ended up here and I was so scared; my life suddenly seemed worth ending. But now I'm not scared anymore, even though there's so much to fear. I think it's you. You're strange, but I feel as if I've always known you. Almost like you're…"
She walks right up to me, and I'm too taken aback to do much of anything. She sets her hand tenderly on the side of my face.
"Angeli."
The word hits me like an oversized ball bearing to the blackest pits of my soul. I throw the trembling hands away, vehement in my denial.
"No," I growl. "Not anymore. Never say it again."
I don't care that I'm not making any sense, or worse, giving myself away. She hit a raw nerve, and I could claw her pretty eyes out for it.
But Ophelia is just so damn blissfully unaware, and looks up at me with something close to adoration. "You're my savior. Sent from God."
I take a moment to merely absorb the ludicrousity of the statement, frozen there on the bridge, but by the time I gather a withering reply she's already picked up her shoes and coat.
"Do it. Jump. The world would not miss you."
Ophelia chitters, dark eyes sparkling. "You make me laugh." She goes up on tiptoe to brush her lips across my cheek, and I'm appalled. I catch her firmly by the upper arm, done playing games.
"Do not laugh at me," I mutter. I know I'm squeezing her arm too tightly, but I'm enthralled by the sudden terror in her eyes. I want her to fear me. As if taking out my frustration on the entire human race for ignoring me over the last century, I feel an overwhelming desire for this random Italian beauty to know exactly what I am.
"Do you believe in Hell?" I purr.
I never get to hear her answer. A new voice, understated yet powerful, cuts off her wavering reply.
"Let her go, Lucifer"
My heart plummets to a record low. I know that voice. Even if the damning words hadn't been in the Old Language, that spoken on earth before the Babel fiasco and now used exclusively between angels, I would still know. There's only one being left alive who still calls me by that name, that wretched title which I forsook so long ago, and I really, really don't want to see him right now.
I throw little Ophelia away, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Go. Just go.
She looks at me with a sort of spooked confusion, but then gathers her things and disappears across the bridge and down the nearest alleyway, white skirts floating around her legs like the last vestiges of a benign spirit.
Certain that no mortal eyes are left on the bridge, I spread my arms bitterly and speak in my native tongue. The syllables sound rusted and awkward in my mouth.
"Do it. Arrest me again. I am utterly indifferent as to my fate."
A figure breezes past me, angry and military. I recognize the somber blue eyes and dark curls, the features so sharp they could have been carved from marble. The aura is angelic, disgustingly so, but old and rich and entangled with mine. I take in the angel who had once been my brother in arms, from the borrowed (Because when I do it, it's stealing. When angels do it, it's "borrowing") human jeans to the slight heavenly glow emanating from his face.
"Hello brother," I say brightly. "How's Daddy?"
Michael slaps down my arms, unamused by my sardonic tongue as always. "I should have you court-martialed, Lucifer. Or just kill you and save the rest of Heaven a lot of time and resources."
I roll my eyes, lighting another cigarette. After eons of chances, Michael has never turned me in. Given me a good hiding? Absolutely. Tipped his archangels off to my location? Many times. But pulled a complete endgame and made me stand trial before the Throne? Not once.
I smoke in silence, content to watch him for the time being. He's gotten older, I notice; no matter how young the body an angel inhabits, the eyes always give it away. I admit to myself that I've gotten older too, and that it's been too long by anyone's standards since we've seen each other. He isn't flanked by a battalion of cherubim, so I assume he's off-duty. As it happens, so am I, so neither of us feel obligated to exchange the usual death threats or even mild good versus evil banter. Michael and I have had a long-standing agreement that if we were ever to meet like this, a temporary ceasefire would be called. If it were any angel other than Michael, or if I we stumbled across each other in the presence of any of my demons, it would be an entirely different story. But he's my exception. And no matter how he denies it, I know I'm his.
Still, that hardly means there's any love lost between us, and I jump at the chance to rub him the wrong way.