The Watcher

“Like I said, nobody can hurt him the way you can. You’re his weakness. Leaving him now, you’ve hurt him all over again.” Damiel ran his hand lightly up my arm, sending a shiver from my neck to my ankles, heady and strong, a force that pulled in waves at my mind and stomach. “I wanted to thank you for making this so easy for me. Nothing destroys us the way love does. You’ve hurt him more than falling ever did.”

There was a truth to Damiel’s words that cut me to the bone. It left me woozy and tired, like something was being taken away. I remembered the look of hurt on Michael’s face, hurt I’d put there, and I knew Damiel was telling the truth. Whatever I thought I was doing to save Michael had only made it worse. How could I be so stupid?

“It’s for the best,” Damiel continued with a mock sympathy that jarred me out of my reverie. “He’s got too many rules to follow. He can’t be with you, not really.” A slow, sultry smile touched his lips. “But I can.”

Leaning in a bit closer, he stroked my arm again. His touch sent a pulse through me, followed by a staggering wave of dizziness and nausea that lasted only a moment. Then everything in the room shifted to soft-focus. He was the old Damiel again, not a demon, just another guy at school. It was as though I was seeing him through someone else’s eyes, and I noticed how attractive he was. Black leather jacket, white shirt, tendrils of hair curved at the nape of his neck, touching his collar. He even smelled good, cologne and leather. Up close, he glimmered and shone. I wasn’t afraid anymore.

When he kissed me, it was deceptively soft, as his touch had been. A current of energy rushed through me with a dizzying intensity, and suddenly I found myself kissing him back. Not like it was with Michael. Nothing at all like that. But this eerily soothing voice in my head told me that Michael was too good for me, that I’d never be with him again.

“Come with me,” he said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

“No, I love Michael—”

“Forget about him,” he said. Another wave of dizziness hit me and I forgot what I was thinking about.

I followed Damiel to his Maserati. Its heated leather seats were already warm, but I was experiencing everything as if through a fog. Damiel sped the Maserati down the main road, weaving through traffic, and took the freeway at racing speed, but it didn’t faze me. Something was wrong. It was like forgetting something important, something you swore you’d remember. In that moment all I could think about was Damiel: his mouth, his touch, his skin.

We drove in silence through a hilly, wooded area outside of town. I had no idea where I was. I just knew we were going uphill, and I caught glimpses of lights from houses below as we turned hairpin corners toward some kind of summit.

He steered the car onto a gravel road and took us into a clearing in the trees, where he parked the car. Even in my stupor, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to take a six-figure sports car onto a logging road, but perhaps Damiel was edgy like that. He helped me out of the car before I could figure out the locks, and I stepped out into the cold without a coat. Above us the stars glistened, and the night air smelled of damp pine.

“This way,” Damiel said, motioning ahead of him. Since I could hardly see more than a few feet in the darkness, I faltered. He put an arm around my waist to move me along, and I noticed how warm it was.

Strange images flashed in my mind, too fast for me to understand, and I was dizzy again, queasily so. Something was wrong. But what?

The dizziness continued as I walked with Damiel. Surrounded by trees, we no longer had the sky to guide us, but Damiel seemed to know the way. I followed.

We had been walking a long time before I asked, “Where are we going?” My voice sounded distant and slurred.

“Almost there.”

In the woods ahead of us, a tiny log cabin came into view. It looked warm and inviting; light from the windows streamed along the ground, illuminating the path to the door. Inside, the walls were rough, exposed wood, as were the tables and chairs. The room itself was lit only by candles covering every surface—shelves, tables, floor—casting a flickering, golden glow, one I normally associated with Michael.

Michael. Something was wrong. I should not be here. Not with Damiel. Michael had warned me how persuasive he could be. Scattered images flashed in my mind again, images of Michael after everything he’d been through. The look of happiness from our wedding night so long ago, and the look of devastation on his face earlier tonight when I sent him away. Damiel was right. I was Michael’s weakness.

Damiel led me through the rustic living room to the cabin’s only bedroom. A shrine of candles lined the floor, dressers, and windowsill. Despite their heat, I could smell the damp wood from the walls. Like the rest of the furniture, the bed was wooden, too, and had a huge, rough-hewn headboard. It was covered in a soft-looking, blood-red duvet and overstuffed gold pillows, reminding me of a hotel suite.

Was this what he wanted to show me?

Two large, hooded figures entered through the front door. With midnight-black shiny skin, they had the faces of gargoyles. Their blood-red eyes glowed embers as they nodded obediently at Damiel, clinging to his every word.

“Kill anyone that gets near us.” Motioning to the outside, he sent them away.

The bones in my legs melted. I staggered, and the fog in my brain started to lift. Surely Michael wouldn’t come. Not after everything I said to make him go away.

“Steady now,” Damiel said, gripping my arm so hard I thought it might bruise. “We don’t want you to panic.”

A montage of dreamlike images bombarded my mind—of Damiel and me in that lifetime so long ago. We were naked, having sex. It was harsh and wrong. Painful. I had been terrified, overpowered, unable to escape, but then a haze came over me, and my body hungered for Damiel. What I remembered of being with Michael had been fueled by desire. It was nothing like this. Damiel was the one who had enthralled me. This was rape.

My stomach turned to ice as I realized that this was what he was pla

“Wow, this place is great.” I sca

On the dresser was an ornate silver tray with a bottle of wine and two glasses. The fact that he’d thought of getting me drunk to seduce me, given all the other things he could do to my mind, seemed completely absurd. The bottle was full, heavy, and if I hit him just right, I might have a chance to escape, providing I made it past his minions.

One of the candles by the bed sparked and caught his attention. As swiftly as I could, I grabbed the bottle and swung it at the side of his head as though it were a baseball bat, aiming for the temple. I wasn’t even sure it would break. I must have gotten the angle right, because the glass shattered in my hands and red wine spilled everywhere, covering the bed, the floor, his shirt.

He was surprised, but uninjured. I had heard once that the purpose of breaking a bottle on someone’s head was to keep hitting them with the broken glass. So I swung again, but with bullet-fast reflexes, he caught my wrist.

His face twisted into a cruel expression of rage and he backhanded me. The force of it threw me into the dresser. I fought for breath, my face throbbing. Blood trickled down my cheek.

“Such a shame that you can’t see how I feel about you.” He was maniacally calm. “How I’ve always felt.”

He reached up to touch my face; I turned away from him.

“Please don’t.”

His fingers hovered above my skin and heat came off of them in cascading waves. Waves that would soon overcome and persuade me to do his will. “Don’t what?”