The Watcher

Epilogue



That night, Michael joined me in my bed. I lay fully clothed, with my head on his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. As he held me, stroking my hair from the top of my head all the way down my back, a rich, electric tension built between us, pulsing through my skin. I could almost taste it in the air, as sweet as a warm summer night. The horrors from earlier that evening seemed unreal in comparison, flat and colorless. Michael’s touch was real, the only thing that mattered.

His chest rose and fell under the duvet as his breathing became more quick and shallow than usual. When I glanced up at him, the heat in his eyes pierced me, drew me to him. Drew my lips to his. We kissed gently at first, but the thought of how close I’d come to losing him fueled my desire. It was so easy to roll on top of him and press my body into his, to plant kisses on his throat and listen to his soft exhales as his arms held me firmly in place. His halo tingled my skin as he let me in, and I savored the warmth of his body beneath me as his fingers brushed the back of my neck.

It took him longer than usual to stop himself. He whispered my name, almost inaudibly at first—I thought he was just enjoying himself—then firmly. The third time he said my name, he flipped us both with one arm and was suddenly on top. The heat of his desire shone in the blackness of his eyes, searing through my clothes, my skin. His desire might have scared him, but it didn’t scare me. In that moment, I didn’t want him to stop. I’d saved a demon—surely I’d done my good deed for the day!

I watched him struggle to control himself, to resist the pull between us. Willing myself to stay off him, I pressed my spine into the mattress. He sat up partially and closed his eyes.

When they opened again, they were an incredible glacial blue. I was expecting a scolding, more repression. Instead he leaned back on his knees, further out of arm’s reach, and unbuttoned his shirt.

“All right, that’s it! You’ve asked for it.”

Oh God, was this really it? Was I ready? Were we finally going to… No, we can’t! What would it do to him? Before I could finish my thought, his shirt was off and the golden light around him brightened. Mesmerized, I waited for him to kiss me.

The lights flickered and I heard an incredible silence envelop us as he pulled forth his wings. Though I had just seen them on the flight home, they were still a dazzling sight. Each time I saw them, especially now, they brought up a different set of emotions in me, emotions I didn’t fully understand, but I was beginning to.

“Much better,” he sighed. The air cooled slightly as he fanned them out, and sparkling prisms of light refracted off them. Even in the darkness of my room they were brilliant, luminescent.

“Now, how are we going to do this?” he asked more of himself than of me.

“Do what?” I blinked at him.

He grabbed a spare pillow. Rolling it, he laid it out lengthwise so it would support his head, neck, and mid-back. “That should do.” He laid himself down on the pillow, which gave enough support to free up his wings. “This is the next best thing. I promise.”

He opened his arms again for me to come back to him. I hesitated, staring at his bare chest. There was no way I could be that close to his skin and maintain any self-control.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, pulling the sheet up over himself. “Better?”

I wanted to say “Not really,” because there was nothing better about him covering himself up. Instead, I motioned to his wings. “Won’t my lying on them hurt?”

“Not at all. You’ll see.”

The wing I rested on was softer, more plush than I could have imagined, and remarkably flexible, considering they kept him in the air. I leaned my head back into his chest as both his wings enveloped me.

Nothing I’d ever experienced had prepared me for the way they felt. The soft, warm, downy sensation of feathers and the cocoon of stillness felt as though they shielded me from a noise I didn’t even know I’d been aware of. Then there was the sensation of light itself, of glowing, as the prismatic filaments reflected themselves. It was like being inside a rainbow of refracted starlight, our own little world. I had a sense of peace, of being so loved.

“This must be what Heaven is like,” I muttered into the sheet, millimeters away from his skin.

“You in my arms?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, it’s close.”

Warmth rushed through me when he said that, knowing he enjoyed being close to me as much as I did him. “When was the last time you were there?”

“Physically? About nine thousand years ago.”

His answer shocked me. “You mean you haven’t been back since…?”

“Since I fell? No. I can see it in vision, which is a way of going there, but physically entering the gates?” He shook his head. There was longing in his eyes that told me his desire to go home again was at least as strong as his desire to be with me. He was conflicted. Once, he’d given up everything to be with me. I didn’t want it to happen again, no matter what that meant for us.

“You’ll get back there,” I said. “I know you will.” He ran his fingers through my hair; the light touch on my back almost burned—in a good way.

“You should know what Damiel said tonight, about me killing someone.” Tension shot down his arm and he stopped moving, his hand frozen in place on my back. “It wasn’t premeditated.”

“I know. Damiel has a way of twisting things,” I said, feeling his arm relax. “But you are going to tell me everything that happened, right? So I don’t have to hear about it from someone else?”

His arm tensed again. “Now?”

“No. Soon, though.”

He let out his breath. “I’ll tell you everything I can.”

“You said I’ve always seen you even when other people can’t, and you’ve told me how dangerous it is to see these things, but what you haven’t told me is why. Why can I see these things in the first place?”

“Hmm,” he said, pondering. “I don’t know exactly. But I do know there’s more to you, Mia Crawford, than meets the eye.” Kissing the top of my head, he tightened his arms around me. “I thought about what you said earlier tonight, about how I don’t trust myself, and I realized I do. I can’t change what I’ve done, but when you found out, you didn’t judge me for it. Your faith in me, your memories…You didn’t just help a demon tonight. You helped me, and I owe you for that.”

“Hmm. You owe me, do you?”

I propped myself up on his chest, gazing into his eyes. They looked calm and happy, but a little worried. It seemed that, as powerful and fearless as he was, something about me frightened him, exactly the way something about him frightened me.

“Yes.”

“Will you stay tonight, like this?” I motioned to the wing cover above me, and prisms of light danced along my skin.

“If you want me to.”

Grinning, I leaned back into his chest and sighed. “Then we’re even.”





Acknowledgements

I owe my deep gratitude to the many hands that have guided me along the journey of writing this book.

I’ll start off with heartfelt thanks to Elinor Svoboda and Cara Anderson, brilliant screenwriters and true friends, who’ve read this book almost as many times as I have, and gave me the encouragement I needed every step of the way.

Matthew, I don’t know where I’d be without your loving support and unwavering faith in me. Thank you for every late night reading, for listening to my ramblings about these characters, and for every dinner you prepared so I could have time to write. I could not have done this without you. Dad, thanks for being there, for your support, and for teaching me to never give up.

I also want to thank all my friends who read this work and gave me their honest feedback: Anna, Bennett, Blair, Bryony, Hannah, Jen, Jessica, Josh, Laurie, Marilyn, and Steve.

Thanks to Betsy Warland and the VMI Solo program, I was mentored by two amazing authors: Nancy Richler and Alyx Dellamonica. Nancy, thank you for giving me confidence in my work. Alyx, thank you for your lessons, patience, and much-needed advice. I learned so much from both of you.

Shauna , thank you for our fabulous chats. Faye Fitzgerald, thank you for your metaphysical training and for teaching me how psychic gifts work.

A huge thank you also goes to Shilpa Mudiganti, at Inkspell Publishing, for taking a chance on me and making this book a reality. I also owe my gratitude to my editor, Rie Langdon, who polished my words and helped me clean any vestiges of Canadian dialect off these American characters. Thank you, also, to Najila Qamber for designing such a gorgeous cover.

I am grateful for you all.