Daman's Angel Read online

  Something was going down with the Lepski gang, and Haki would know what it was. Vincent never sent Haki unless he meant business. It was Daman’s business to know what that was, no matter the cost.

  Haki ran along the footpath of the busy street. Flashing lights and moving cars made him hard to spot. Daman saw his thick back beneath a street light, then shadows clutched him. Daman momentarily lost sight of him, and then a car passed. Haki hid in the doorway of a closed shop. Daman pulled his gun, slowed to a jog. Being this close to Haki was a life-endangering hobby. He’d learned that first hand. Haki looked directly at Daman. His hand slid beneath his jacket.

  “Don’t do it,” Daman murmured.

  People, ignorant to them, sloshed over the wet ground, wrapping coats around them, keeping as warm as they possibly could on their way out or home from work. There were too many people for Daman’s liking. Too many possible hostages, too many bodies that could be hurt, or worse. The situation, coupled with a numb-nut like Haki, put them in more danger than he liked.

  He had to bring Haki down without the need for endangering these people, but the closer Daman got, the jumpier Haki became. His gaze turned to the opposite side of the road, pre-empting his decision to run. Daman stopped short.

  “What are you doing following me, Haki?” Daman called.

  Haki eyeballed him. The whites of his eyes glowed in the headlights. “You should be dead, bro.”

  “You should be a better shot.”

  He held a shaking finger to somewhere behind Daman. Daman turned to see Angel walking toward him.

  “Damn,” he muttered, then so she could hear, “Angel, get back.”

  “It’s really her!” Haki wailed, his voice high-pitched. He came from the doorway, stumbling across the pavement. He shouldered a woman, pushed her out of the way and ran between two parked cars. The on-flow of traffic was heavy and he wasn’t watching what he was doing. He had his eyes pinned on Angel, but his body charged into the traffic.

  There was a horn blast, a skid and a hollow thump. The unmistakable sound of a body being crumpled by a large, fast-moving hunk of metal. It was strange how Daman always recognized the sound of a body being smashed apart by a car. It was that wet hollowness, the impact of organic cells shattering into nothing, the slick wetness of blood, normally housed by veins, erupting out of spaces now too small and shattered to contain it.

  Daman ran in time to see the driver standing helplessly above the bloodied, very still Haki.

  “He came from nowhere,” the driver said. He was clearly shaken, his face ashen, shoulders drooping, the perfect picture of stark horror.

  “I believe you. I saw the whole thing. He ran out in front of you. There was nothing you could have done to stop in time,” Daman sat him on the ground. The man let him position him any way he wanted to. He repeated what he’d said, letting the man’s numb brain accept his words.

  He turned to Haki. A crowd of people had assembled in a tight circle around them. “Is anyone a doctor?” Daman asked.

  There was a murmur and shaking of heads. “Can someone call for an ambulance?” Not that there was need of a fast one.

  Daman felt for a pulse at Haki’s neck. There was nothing. Blood splattered his shirt and across his face. His arm was pinned beneath him, his leg bent at an unusual angle. Sightless eyes stared into the night.

  “Shit.” Daman sat back on his haunches, gazing at Haki’s dead body. Dead was useless to him. He’d wanted him alive. He needed to know why he was following him. He needed suspicions confirmed, and now he had nothing.

  Angel pushed through the crowd. She gasped, her hand flew to her mouth as she stared, mute and still, at Haki. She knelt beside Daman, staring at Haki’s body.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” Daman said.

  “Why did he run in front of the car?” Angel asked.

  “I think he was frightened by you. I thought, if I could talk to him, I could find out why he was following us. He wasn’t waiting for us outside the church because he was religious.”

  He needed to get Angel away from here, away from Haki and death. She was probably in shock, coming face to face with the man who’d been the catalyst for her situation. Daman went to stand when she placed her hands, palm down and open on Haki’s chest and forehead.

  “Angel?”

  She stared somewhere into the crowd, between two people. He couldn’t see what she was looking at. Her mouth moved, but there were no words. She seemed to be asking something of the shadows. There was recognition. Her eyes closed and she bent her head, leaning over Haki’s body. A golden light glowed from beneath her hands. It became stronger, brighter, until her hands were hidden by the glowing light. Heat was drawn from the light, but it wasn’t burning. It was strong, but gentle. The more he felt, the more he wanted to be near to it, to become a part of it.

  Someone, a woman, gasped from the back of the crowd. There was silence, save for the patter of rain on the road and the slush of the low speed of passing cars. No one moved. Spoke. Breathed.

  He looked from Angel’s hands to her face. She was still. Her serene face set in calm concentration. Whatever she was doing, it was clear she knew what she did. She bent her head to Haki’s mouth, touching her lips to his. As she opened her mouth, the golden glow emanated from it. It spiraled from her mouth and went into Haki’s blue-lipped, open, slack mouth.

  The skin around his mouth became rosy, as though blood still pumped through his veins. The glow spread to his face, bringing back the glow of life. His eyes snapped open, his chest rose from the road. A strangled breath tore into his lungs. He lay, panting, while movement returned to his limbs. He turned his head to Angel. Recognition.

  His eyes widened. He uttered a choked cry. He scrambled from the road. There was a cry from the crowd. People staggered back as he lurched through them, arms pummeling them aside as he tripped into the shadows.

  Daman looked around him. No thoughts. No words.

  It couldn’t have been.

  But Angel knelt on the road where Haki had lain. Blood stained her shirt, her hands. Her golden smile lit her ethereal face. She’d done the impossible.

  She had the power of life and death in the palm of her hands.

  “You…brought him back to life,” Daman gasped as his slack brain pumped rational thought back. He snapped into action. They had to get her out of here. People had seen what she could do. She had been seen.

  And would be remembered.

  He dragged her to her feet. Ignored her face turning from delight to open-eyed shock. He plowed through the crowd, who soundlessly stood aside as they had done for Haki.

  He faltered down the street, merging with shadows, dragging Angel by her arm behind him.

  “You needed to talk to him,” Angel gasped.

  Daman found an alley and pulled her into it, into the dark shadows of an enclosed driveway. “How did you…do that?” Daman asked. He dropped her arm, stood back reeling with the knowledge of what she was. What she was capable of doing.

  The extent of what he’d done to bring her into this world from her own weighting his conscience, nailing him to the cold, dank earth like a stake through his gut. She wasn’t just an angel, she was capable of so much more. She was ancient, powerful. She held a God-power in the palm of her hands.

  And she had brought back the last person that should ever walk this earth to life.

  He brought his hands to his eyes. Ground the palm of his hands into the sockets. “What have I done?”

  “You haven’t done anything,” Angel said.

  Daman turned to her. “You don’t realize who he was. Who he will tell what you can do. Angel, I have to get you the hell out of here as soon as possible.”

  “I asked him if he wanted to come back and he said yes. I just helped him back into his body.”

  “How could you do that?”

  “I saw his soul standing watching us. There was still time. His body would have him
back.”

  “That was what you saw,” Daman murmured.

  She reached out, went to touch his hand. He recoiled. Couldn’t stop it. Her hand dropped to her side. “There’s more. Daman. I remember.”

  “Remember what?” he asked, pushing the words through a dry throat. His heart pumped a wild rhythm in a watery chest. There was a part of him that didn’t want her to remember, part of him that wanted to be in control while she was here.

  “Everything. Daman, I remember who I am and how I came to be here.”

  Chapter Nine

  Father Joseph read the same paragraph for the fifth time, then with a sigh, closed the book on the history of his church when he finished and couldn’t remember what was written. He hadn’t been able to get his thoughts straight since Daman and Angel has left him. He pushed aside the book he was half way through reading. His church blog on the founding builders would have to wait for now.

  When Daman had first introduced Angel, he’d thought that finally the stress of losing his wife and the subsequent life he’d chosen had gotten to the man and he’d gone around the bend. But then to learn, to see with his own eyes that she was indeed as real as he was. Once more, he offered a silent prayer of gratitude of thanks to the Lord. Seeing Angel only confirmed his supreme faith in his religion. It was more than any man could ever hope for and for this sign he would be eternally grateful. It seemed to him that to sit at his kitchen table and return to mundane tasks was just too—well, ordinary. He couldn’t sit still after something so momentous happening to him. It was nothing short of a miracle.

  What would his elders have done? The multitude of monks and priests that had been sent miracles would sit at a bench and write a blog on the history of a building.

  But they would write. They would record what happened to them, just as it happened to him. Just as it had been recorded in the book he’d found stored in the altar. His mind rolled back the years, to the first he had been stationed here. He was a young man. An enthusiastic man who had followed his elder priest into the catacombs one day. A young man who’d seen more than he should have at that time of his career. Now he knew why his elder had shouted at him and turned him away. The eyes of the young looked at things so differently than those of the old. And what he’d glimpsed was only meant for the eyes of the experienced. Only they would know what to do with the vast amount of secrets that were there.

  They had to be looked after. Treated with a half-forgotten hand. Kept safe in the bowels of the oldest church in Melbourne. Even new countries held secrets of the ages.

  And added to—when the need required it.

  This was a miracle that needed to be added to the thousands of other accounts. How many more had happened that were never recorded and forgotten? How many signs had been ignored?

  Steeled from his decision, Father Joseph rose from his chair. This was one account that was not going to be ignored. He went to the sideboard and slid open a narrow drawer that separated the two larger doors beneath to the shelves above. He sifted through some brochures and felt to the back of the drawer. He’d remembered the book when Daman and Angel were here, but he’d forgotten about this. Going down there might reveal more secrets that might help them further. His fingers closed about a large black key attached to an ornately wrought iron cross. The key to the crypts.

  And hidden secrets.

  Father Joseph shouldered on a thick, heavy coat and found his strongest flashlight. Checking the battery, he went from his quiet, warm quarters, through the church and out a little-used door behind the general admissions office.

  The night was dark and cold, but the clouds had cleared for a moment, allowing the brightness of the stars to light the wet, black path that wound around the corner of the church. He looked at the stars for a moment, taking in their beauty. He didn’t often spend too much time outdoors now. There was a touch of arthritis in his joints, but now he had a second wind. He’d been given a new way to look at life and he wasn’t going to forget. A youthful smile tugged at his mouth, one full of wonder and curiosity without the criticism of life turning the ends. He was not going to forget the little wonders of the world anymore, joints be dammed.

  He took the key from his pocket and pushed it into the large keyhole in the ancient, blackened heavy oak door. The key struggled to turn in the lock. With some effort, Father Joseph fought until the rusted clogs turned with a loud thunk. He shouldered the door open and was enveloped with the musty smell of uncirculated, stale air. He coughed a lungful of it out, spasming on the old air.

  He opened the door, letting some fresh winter air inside. He directed the light of the torch in the downward direction of the steps that led from the ledge he stood on. The light only dented the blackness enough to illuminate a few steps. Knowing it wasn’t going to get much better, the priest took a large breath of fresh air and started to decline the steps to the little-known maze of catacombs hidden for more than a century beneath the floors of the church.

  The steps cut into the stonework were deep and so narrow that the toes of his shoes overhung the ends. He used his hand on the wall as a guide as well as balance. As he descended, the wall became colder and moist. Mold gathered under his fingernails. The air was tainted with muskiness that tickled the hairs in his nostrils. He stopped to sneeze and the torchlight dipped as his body shuddered. This was far different than the time he’d secretly followed the master priest in his youth. It had been summer for one, and midday. The sunlight had illuminated most of the stairwell then. But the air held the same quality of dankness. In the fifty years since he’d set foot down here, little had changed, including the air.

  He mentally breathed relief when his feet found the relatively flat floor of bluestone. The flashlight illuminated the low ceiling and narrow walls of the passageway. He dipped his head and stepped forward. His shoulder brushed the wall and the material of his coat snagged on the rough cut of the stone bricks. As a youth, this tunnel seemed larger and less narrow. He smiled to himself, the years of adding to his girth didn’t help walking through it.

  A large black cavern opened up at the end of the passageway so large the torch light didn’t have enough strength to illuminate it. This was where he’d have to do the guesswork as he worked. He’d gone no further than here before he’d been ushered out, only catching a glimpse of the large circular wall of the cavern. Then, it had been much better lit with bright lights. He’d asked his leading priest to take him back into the cavern, but then he’d been called back overseas before he’d had the chance. The then-young Father Joseph had forgotten about these catacombs beneath the responsibility of inexperience and a busy parish.

  Father Joseph placed his right hand on the wall and followed the corner. If he kept the wall to his right he would be led back to the passageway easily enough. Now, to find what he’d come for.

  Shuffling forward, he traced around various stones that marked priests, nuns, monks and important church officials that had died over the years and earned a place to be buried in these sanctified grounds. All were beyond his years here. As he moved deeper into the cavern, the air became so frigid his breath condensed in white clouds. He shrugged his coat deeply around him, turning the collar to cover his neck. It was too bad he’d forgotten a beanie to cover his balding head.

  His foot kicked something hard. He swung the light to illuminate the marble base of the statue he looked for. His heart pumped a little quicker as he swung the beam upwards to the top of the statue. His memory returned, along with the title he’d subconsciously named it. “The Winged Madonna.” He mouthed the words. It fit so well. He stared in lost wonder, lost between new-found memory and fresh eyes.

  The marble was pure white. It seemed to glow in the meager torch light. The workmanship was exquisite, the marble having been carved by a true master in his field. The marble was so smooth and flawless it was as though it were shaped by a feather.

  His title was apt. The Madonna’s face was timelessly beautiful. Long hai
r flowed beneath a flowing veil that reached her toes. Her palms were turned outward in a sign of peace and compassion. Her head tilted in understanding. It was the enduring pose of the ever-loving Madonna.

  However, where the back of her gown would have flowed to pool at her feet, this was different. There was more behind her back. Two feathered wings had been chiseled from the marble, extending well above her head, halo-like behind her head and shoulders, the top of the wings the symbol of a love-heart. The wings folded neatly behind her where feathers curled at her ankles. The detailed representation of a perfect angel.

  A perfect representation of the angel he’d seen with his own eyes just a few hours ago.

  Father Joseph crossed himself and slowly knelt in front of the statue on stiff, half-frozen legs. On the base of the statue was a rectangular stone tablet set into a marble frame. The last time he’d seen this, it had been opened. The elder priest had never taken him back here, but he had told him the secrets of the chamber. The weight of the secret had been enough to scare the young Father into feeling much better that the secret cavern below the church was kept locked and safe for the number of years it had been.

  He took the key and leveraged the stone tablet outwards. It took him some minutes to work the heavy stone free from the chamber it kept locked behind it. At last the tablet came free and crashed heavily to the ground. Father Joseph grunted as he pushed it to the side. A trickle of perspiration trickled from his temple and ran down the side of his jowled cheek.

  Finally, he had moved it enough to uncover the thick book that it protected. With careful reverence, he tucked both hands either side of the book and slid it from the chamber. Father Joseph sat back on his heels, placing the heavy book on his lap. The Miracle Book. Pages and pages of reports of miracles, kept safe from the public and the Vatican. He didn’t know how far it went back, but it was centuries old, transported from Europe to this far distant land to keep it safe. Who would have thought something so precious would be kept in a crypt beneath an insignificant church in Australia.