The Angel

Nora’s heart pounded. Did the priest know something about her? About how she and Søren had “helped” Michael recover from his suicide attempt?

Before Nora could descend into a full-blown panic attack, the bells rang, the processional music began and Søren entered behind the crucifer and took his place at the altar.

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all,” Søren said. The visiting priest remained in his seat. Bad sign. A visiting priest almost always shared Mass duties. That he simply sat and watched meant something. Something bad.

“And also with you,” Nora recited with the rest of the congregation. Søren seemed calm and unperturbed as usual. The visiting priest didn’t bother him at all. Seeing Søren so calm did little to comfort her. Søren could be calm in the middle of a blitzkrieg.

Nora watched as Søren slid his fingers up the side of his podium and tapped the corner three times. To anyone else it would have been a mindless gesture, but Nora knew it was a signal to her. He wanted her to come to his office after the service instead of heading straight for his bed. Something was going on. Barring divine intervention, Søren had said. Nora hated divine intervention.

Nora turned to Michael and she saw her own fear reflected in his strange silver eyes. She looked up at Søren and whispered one terrified word to herself.

“Fuck.”

2

Returning Owen to his bemused parents delayed Nora in the sanctuary a few minutes after Mass. By the time she made it to Søren’s office, Michael already stood outside the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“He summoned you too?” she asked, sitting across from him on the bench opposite Søren’s door.

Michael nodded.

“Kind of feels like we’re sitting outside the principal’s office,” Nora said. “I hear you’re valedictorian this year, so you probably never had to sit outside the principal’s office, did you?”

Nora waited and still got no reply from Michael. He smiled but didn’t speak.

“Michael? Pussy got your tongue?”

He laughed … audibly.

“Finally,” Nora breathed, relieved to hear something from him. “You have any idea why we’re here?”

Michael shrugged. “None. I don’t think it’s good though.”

“Michael, you didn’t talk to anyone, you know, about us, did you?”

The look Michael gave her abounded with so much hurt that she realized immediately she’d been an idiot to even consider that Michael would say a word to anyone about her or Søren.

“Nora,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “I don’t even talk to myself.”

Now it was her turn to laugh.

“I’m sorry, Angel. I’m just being paranoid.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t say anything, promise. I never talk.”

Nora stood up and walked over to Michael. She sat beside him and stared full-on. He started to look away, but she snapped her fingers in front of his face and pointed right at her eyes. Immediately his silver eyes met her green ones.

“You talked to me that night,” she breathed into his ear.

His pale face flushing, Michael whispered, “That was just a dream.”

Nora blew air over his neck under his ear.

“We had the same dream then.”

Michael’s pupils went wide and she knew he was remembering the night Søren had given him to her—as a gift and a test. She’d enjoyed the gift. She’d failed the test.

“Are you doing okay?” she asked, taking a step back to give him some breathing room.

Michael nervously rubbed his arms.

“Okay, I guess.”

“Did Søren give you that book?”

“Yeah. It helped. Thank you,” Michael said. She’d passed on her old beat-up copy of The Other Secret Garden to him, a classic work on the psychology of sexual submission.

“You’re welcome. Is our priest on the phone?”

Michael nodded.

“What language?”

“French first.” Michael leaned closer to the door. “Now Danish.”

“Hmm … that’s good news and bad news.”

“How?”

Nora returned to the bench and crossed her legs, a move that caught Michael’s attention.

“French is bad. French means Kingsley.”

“Who’s Kingsley?”

Nora grinned. Who was Kingsley? Kingsley Edge, the King of Kink in New York City. Half-French, all pervert. Her occasional lover and Søren’s best friend. Well, best friend on those occasions Søren wasn’t threatening to kill him.

“French is bad since Kingsley gets called when anything disreputable needs doing. But Danish is good. Søren always calls his niece in Copenhagen on Sundays after Mass so whatever’s going on isn’t so bad it’s upsetting the routine yet.”

“Father S has a niece?” Michael looked incredulous at the idea.

Nora grinned at him. Søren did have an aura of having been sprung full-formed from the head of Zeus about him. One could hardly imagine him as a little boy or having parents, going to school and doing homework. But she knew all about his family—the good and the evil.

“Two nieces, one nephew. And—” she held up three fingers “—three sisters. Two American sisters, one in Denmark.”

Michael looked up at the ceiling.

“Wow.”

“Can you imagine having him—” she pointed at the closed door, behind which stood one of the more intimidating men alive “—as your brother? Terrifying, right?”

“I don’t envy the boyfriends.”

They laughed together even though Nora knew Søren hadn’t gotten a chance to have any of the normal brotherly experiences with his sisters. He and Freja had grown up in separate countries and Claire was fifteen years younger than him. And Elizabeth … well, Elizabeth was another story.

“Come here and let me look at you,” Nora said, tearing herself away from the dark trajectory of her thoughts. “How tall are you now?”

Just thirteen months ago he’d been only a few inches taller than her.

“Five-ten.” Michael obediently moved to stand closer to her.

“I knew you weren’t done growing,” she said, remembering how she’d studied him as he slept that night. “You grew into your hands. Haven’t put on much weight though.”

He grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”

“None of that teen angst now, Angel. You’re tall, thin, have perfect porcelain skin and supermodel cheekbones. And unlike mine, your long black hair behaves itself. You, young man, are prettier than any guy I’ve ever seen.”

Nora studied him. Poor kid probably got ostracized at his school for his looks. He wasn’t at all effeminate, but he had passed pretty boy miles ago and landed straight in the middle of beautiful. The girls no doubt envied him for waking up looking lovelier than they could after an hour of primping, and the boys probably hated him for inspiring homoerotic thoughts in their fevered teenage brains.

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. And I’m always right about these things. Aren’t you legal yet, jailbait?” she teased.

“Turned seventeen last month,” he said, blushing.

“That’s legal in this state,” she said and winked at him. The blush deepened and Michael started to say something. But before he could speak, the door to Søren’s office opened. Without a word, Søren crooked his finger at both of them before disappearing back inside.

Nora took a deep breath.

“That’s our cue.” Standing up, she held out her hand. Michael hesitated only a second before slipping his trembling fingers into her grasp.

Hand in hand they entered Søren’s office. Despite knowing Søren for almost twenty years, she’d spent relatively little time in his office. Every member of Sacred Heart knew “Father Stearns’s Rules”—no children under sixteen were allowed in his office without a parent present, no one was allowed alone in his office without the door being left open, private conversations were for the confessional alone, and no one, absolutely no one, was ever allowed at the rectory. Ever.

Except Nora, of course.

The rules were stringent but necessary in the controversy-wary Catholic Church. And in all his years at Sacred Heart, Søren hadn’t caused even the barest whisper of scandal.

Nora and Michael sat in front of Søren’s desk. Glancing around, Nora noted little had changed in the office since he took over Sacred Heart nearly twenty years ago. His neat and elegant office was replete with books and Bibles in nearly two dozen languages. On his huge oak desk sat a framed photo of his beautiful niece, Laila. Laila must be Michael’s age by now. Nora hadn’t seen her since their last trip to Denmark. Nora loved their rare excursions out of the country together—only on another continent could she and Søren walk down the street holding hands. But he was a priest when she gave herself to him, and he’d warned her before she made her commitment that theirs would never be a normal relationship. At eighteen it was nothing to promise him she didn’t care about the sacrifices she’d have to make. At thirty-four she would still make the same decision she had back then, but maybe she wouldn’t make it quite that easily.

Nora turned her eyes to Søren. She still held Michael’s hand for comfort. But whether he was comforting her or she him, she couldn’t say.

“Eleanor, Michael,” Søren began. “We have a situation.”

“Fuck, I knew it,” Nora swore and didn’t even receive the slightest scolding from Søren. Now she knew it was bad, very bad, for Søren to lift the “no swearing on Sundays” edict. “Someone rat us out? I swear to God, I’ll kill them—”

“Eleanor, calm down. I said we had a situation, not a crisis. The priest visiting today—”

“The one who gave me and Michael the stink eye?”

“That one,” Søren said with barely concealed amusement. At least one of them could find this whole nightmare funny. “That was Father Karl Werner—”

“God, I hate German Catholics,” Nora, born Eleanor Schreiber and possessing not one but two German Catholic grandparents, said with venom.

“Father Karl,” Søren continued, pretending not to hear her, “is rather conservative. If he gave you a dark look, Eleanor, it was only because your reputation precedes you.”

“And Michael?” she asked. Michael was only seventeen and apart from scandalously choosing public over Catholic school, he was a model teenager at Sacred Heart: quiet, hardworking and about to graduate at the top of his class.

Michael sighed, flipped his palms upward and thrust his wrists out meaningfully. She didn’t need to see his scars to know that’s what he meant.

“Yes,” Søren said with sympathy. “Father Karl is not pleased that we are home to—”

“A walking mortal sin?” Michael completed for Søren. Nora wrapped her fingers around Michael’s wrist. She slipped her index finger under his wristband and lightly stroked the raised white scar she knew lurked underneath. A little over two years ago, when Michael was only fourteen, his conservative father had found out that Michael had a real and burgeoning interest in BDSM. Much like her when she was a teenager, Michael often hurt himself simply for the sexual thrill of it. Unlike her, it was his own judgmental father, not his empathetic priest, who caught him at it. Michael’s father had laid such shame and guilt on him that Michael had slit his wrists one day and nearly died. Some Catholics, especially of the older generation, considered suicide the most dire of all sins. No doubt Father Karl thought Michael should attend another church. Preferably one that didn’t still sport Michael’s bloodstains on the hardwood.

“Father Karl’s opinion of you both has nothing to do with his visit today,” Søren continued, making it clear in his tone he couldn’t care less about Father Karl’s opinion on anything. “The reason for his visit today had only to do with me. As you both may know, Bishop Leo has colon cancer and will soon retire.”

“And Father Landon is replacing him, right?” Nora asked.

“Father Landon was replacing him. Until three days ago when certain allegations came to the fore.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Nora groaned. “Why priests can’t keep their holy cocks inside their goddamn pants is beyond me.”

Michael inhaled sharply and Nora grimaced. She looked at Søren and smiled apologetically. Søren arched his eyebrow at her.

“Present company excepted, of course,” she said.

“Of course.”

Søren stood up and came around the desk. Nora looked up at him and stared at his face. Everything about him was so aristocratic and aquiline. Even in Denmark, where pale blond hair and blue eyes were the rule and not the exception like here in America, Søren still stood out for his height and his undeniable male beauty.

“With Father Landon’s transfer there remains the question of who will replace Bishop Leo.” Søren paused. The implication of his words hit Nora harder than a rattan cane across the thighs.

“Oh, shit. Søren.” Nora covered her mouth with her hand.

“Well put,” he said, nodding.

“What’s going on?” Michael asked. “This is bad, right?”

“Very bad.” Nora turned to Michael. “Our Father Stearns might be the next bishop of the diocese.”

Michael looked up sharply at Søren.

“Oh, shit,” he said.

“I’m afraid I can’t disagree. That Father Karl came here in person means I’m at the very least on the short list of candidates.”

Nora closed her eyes. Bishop … if Søren became the bishop he’d be the priest to all the priests in the diocese. He’d have to leave the Sacred Heart rectory where a few hundred trees gave him near-total privacy and move to a home he’d have to share with other priests. His already busy schedule would turn hectic and she would rarely if ever get to see him. And that’s if he got the job. Which he would, unless they found out about her and Søren’s extracurricular activities.

“Can’t you just tell them no?”

“Not without raising both ire and suspicion. This is supposed to be a great honor.”

“Honor my ass,” Nora said and saw Michael suppress a laugh. “I don’t mean that literally,” she said to him and noticed again what a gorgeous young man he was turning into. “Okay, maybe I do.”

“Eleanor, five minutes of decorum is all I ask,” Søren said.

“I’m sorry,” she said and meant it. “I’m just a little bit terrified. What’s the plan?”

She knew Søren. He wouldn’t be freaking her out with something like this unless he already had a plan.

“Usually the vetting process for a new bishop is one to two years. With the bishop growing weaker every day, they will attempt to have a new bishop installed by August at the latest.”

Today was May 16th.

“So what do we do for the next two and a half months?” she asked.

“You two will do nothing.” Søren eyed her and Michael. “I will handle this. The diocese will investigate me, of course. This is not a concern. Even if they do discover something about our personal life, Eleanor, the Church will do what it always does when faced with imminent scandal.”

“Hush it up,” Nora supplied, and Søren didn’t disagree. “But?”

“But tomorrow morning an article will appear in the Times about Father Landon. The press will likely descend on the diocese and involve themselves thoroughly in the investigation.”

“The press, huh? Explains why you were on the phone with Kingsley already today.”

Kingsley had a fascinating relationship with the press—fascinating in the way the sack of Rome by invading Barbarian hordes was fascinating. A reporter once threatened to run a story exposing one of Kingsley’s clients—an internationally renowned human-rights attorney—as a transvestite with multiple sexual fetishes. Two nights before the story ran, a sex tape that the reporter and her husband had made played in an endless loop on every computer in their six-year-old’s exclusive private school. The video was unremovable. All two hundred computers had to be scrapped and replaced.

The story never ran.

“I’d rather not resort to any of Kingsley’s methods to keep our private life private,” Søren said. Søren might be a sadist but he only hurt people consensually. “But his information is often invaluable. Rest assured, Eleanor, I will find a way to avoid becoming the next bishop. That is not why I called you both here.”

“I’m already dying not to know why you called us here,” Nora said. Something in Søren’s gray eyes warned her that whatever he was about to say, she wasn’t going to like it.

“You and Michael are the only two members of Sacred Heart who know who and what I am. The press will come, and they will ask questions. I cannot ask either of you to lie for me. And as I know neither of you will tell the truth when asked—”

“Damn straight,” Michael said under his breath, and Nora said a prayer of thanks for Michael’s loyalty. She knew Michael credited Søren with saving his life. She’d never heard the whole story, but she knew Søren had risked his career by telling Michael the truth about himself and his relationship with Nora. The night she and Michael spent together over a year ago was Søren’s reward to Michael for going an entire year without harming himself again. Although an unusually wise and mature teenager then and now, Michael had been fifteen the night she’d taken his virginity. Sixteen, not fifteen, was legal age in Connecticut and New York, and that made their night together a crime. She’d done the deed not knowing his age, but Søren had made the introductions.

“Okay. So Michael and I aren’t allowed to lie about you? Vow of silence then?”

Søren smiled. “You taking a vow of silence, Eleanor, is as likely as you taking a vow of celibacy. No, I think it’s best that you both leave town while this is going on. Together.”

Silence descended on the room like a shroud.

“Can I talk to you alone for one minute please, sir?” Nora asked, and Søren released a much put-upon sigh.

“Michael, would you mind?”

Michael stood up and left the office.

“Are you insane?”

“Little one, who owns you?”

Nora sunk back into her chair.

“You, sir. But you really want—”

“Eleanor, if a reporter asked you if we were lovers what would you do?”

“I’d tell him to mind his own goddamn business. Then I’d have Kingsley freeze his credit cards and bank accounts for the week just for fun.”

Søren raised his eyebrow.

“Okay. Point taken,” she said.

“I need to able to deal with this situation without worrying about you. But the most important reason is Michael. He needs you.”

“Needs me for what?”

“What you are best at,” Søren said simply.

“You expect me to train Michael?” Nora asked, aghast. “I was a pay-for-play dominatrix, remember? Training wasn’t my area. Surely there’s someone else—”

“There’s no one else I trust. And no one else Michael trusts. He starts college in the fall. This summer is our last chance to help him.”

Nora heard something underneath Søren’s words, and a shiver of worry rippled through her. She hadn’t really talked to Michael since their one night together, but she still cared about the kid.

“Help him? The last time I helped him it was because you were afraid he was going to try to kill himself again. What’s wrong with Michael?”

“Nothing I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

Sighing, Nora stood up and wandered over to the stained-glass window that adorned the back wall of Søren’s office. Unlike the stained-glass windows in the sanctuary, this window depicted no saints or biblical scenes but instead a bursting bloodred rose. Nora traced one of the cool metal spokes of the beautiful window with the tip of her finger.

“Søren, we’ve only been back together for a year,” she reminded him, reluctant to leave him for a day much less the entire summer.

“I know, Eleanor.” Søren stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her stomach. “But you have to trust me, trust that I know what I’m doing. I need you to help Michael. I need you to help me.”

I need you…. The infamous underground community they belonged to universally considered Søren its top dominant. Søren had even earned the nickname the Alpha and Omega Male. But those words—I need you—had escaped his lips more times than most who thought they knew him would believe. During their five years apart, Nora would sometimes be awoken early in the morning by a phone call and those three words from Søren. Although she had left him, she never told him no on those rare occasions that he called. Sometimes even he could not rein in his own dark desires. I need you, he would say, and Nora would leave her bed and answer simply, Okay. Tell me where and when.

“Okay.” She answered that need now. “Where and when?”

“As soon as possible, I’m afraid. And I’ll leave the where to you. I would only suggest you go far enough away that no one would attempt to follow you.”

“England?” she asked. “Zach and Grace are trying to get pregnant. This is something I can help them with. Or at least, you know, watch.”

“Out of the question,” Søren said. “I know how you behave in other countries. That you still are allowed a passport is one of the universe’s great mysteries.”

“That was not my fault,” she reminded him. “The consulate cleared me.”

“Eleanor …”

“Fine. We’ll go to Griffin’s,” she said. “He inherited his grandparents’ old horse farm, and he’s been bugging me for months to visit. How’s that?”

Søren heaved a labored sigh. “Griffin …”

Nora bit back a laugh. “Come on, Griffin’s okay. He’s one of my best friends.”

“He’s spoiled, juvenile and a coward.”

He was also rich, gorgeous and great in bed, but she decided not to remind Søren of those facts.

“You always call him a coward. Care to tell me why?” She turned around in his arms.

“No. But I suppose even Griffin deserves a second chance.”

Although curious what Søren meant by a second chance, Nora knew better than to ask. For a moment Søren stood in silence. He tapped his chin as he always did when plotting something.

“I’ll allow you to spend the summer with Griffin,” Søren finally said. “But he is not to touch Michael, or I will revoke both his key to The 8th Circle and you from his life completely. Understood?”

Nora blanched. Serious threats indeed. “Yes, sir.”

“Where is his grandparents’ farm?”

“Way upstate,” she said. “Near Guilford.”

Søren looked at her sharply and his mouth twitched in suppressed mirth.

“That area is rather close to where your mother is, isn’t it?” he asked. “Perhaps you could take a day and visit her.”

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, horrified by the prospect of Søren ordering her to visit her mother. “I’d rather go jogging in hell. Wearing stilettos on a hot day in Aug—”

“Eleanor.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Your cleavage is chirping.”

Nora swallowed and pulled her cell phone from her bra where she’d tucked it before Mass.

“Sorry. Forgot to turn it off.” Nora silenced the ringer.

Søren stared at her. Nora stared back. As usual, Søren won the staring contest.

“It’s Wes,” she confessed, not even having to look at the number. Sunday afternoon—always Wesley.

Søren studied her. This time she couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Does Wesley call you often?”

Nora nodded. “Once a week,” she admitted. “Every Sunday after church.”

“And why is this the first time I’ve heard about this?”

“Doesn’t matter. I never answer.”

“Why don’t you answer the phone when Wesley calls?” Søren asked her in the same tone he used in the confessional booth—lightly curious, not at all condemning, and completely and utterly infuriating.

“Because you haven’t given me permission to.”

“You’ve never asked permission. Were you afraid I would tell you no?”

Nora bit her bottom lip, a nervous habit Søren had been trying to break her of since she was fifteen. Søren reached out and brushed his thumb over her mouth. Nora looked up at him.