It was a place of old wealth: rich dark wood paneled the walls, appropriately dim lights beamed weakly through green shades, mirrors and glass and two-stories of fine liquor beckoned behind the bar. It smelled of smoke and newspaper. Perhaps just a hint of an expensive female perfume, very very faint. The seats were soft and deep, inviting the patron to sink into dark red damask and be still. The muted clink of glass and the distant mutter of other guests further encouraged one to settle and rest. Everything about the place whispered "Service. Let us serve you...Monsieur, Madame, you shall be served."

I accepted it all with good grace, though I did not wallow in the luxury. No soft looming chair in a secluded corner for me. No unctuous server to wait on me personally. It would not be appropriate. I was not of the class or bearing that would have allow me to do so in good conscience. Instead, I was waiting at the bar. Neatly seated on a brass stool. I was poised and watchful, in this place of old money and silent service. I was alert and ready, though I did not know what, nor whom, I was waiting for.

I cannot even say with surety what had brought me in here. "Hunch" would have been too strong a word. No, it was something more slippery, more peripheral. Something that tugged me, pulled faintly near my center of gravity when I was passing the thick oak doors. It made my feet turn ever-so-slightly--just enough so my crepe-soled slippers were caught on the red carpet which lolled like a flat tongue. As soon as I had paused and followed the carpet's roll up to the massive edifice, the attentive doorman opened the door and was silently urging me, ushering me in with his bent head, with his shadowed, downcast eyes.

I did not truly belong in such a place. I had no worldly status, no money or property. There was no title attached to my name, nor did I have any significant family history. I was not born for greatness or power. In fact, I was not born at all, but made. Created by the loving hands of the Kingdom's Keeper as a divine messenger, then broken and refashioned by Hell's soft-limbed inhabitants for another purpose.

But this is not that story. Or rather, this is one part of my tale which unfolds in a rich and somber setting. An earthbound place of leather and smoke, gilt frames and polished mirrors, sweet potent alcohol mixed with heady obsequiousness.

And though I did not belong in this sanctuary of quiet power and subservience, my grace was welcome here. I knew how to act. My movements were elegant and unhurried. I could be beautiful, when I chose. I could be comfortable in this place.

Even my strangeness was viewed with indulgence--they catered to "eccentricities" here. The delicate line of my skull was clearly visible through the soft peach-colored fuzz of hair that was just starting to grow back on my head. I wore no jewels or cosmetics to enhance my looks. I was plainly dressed in a purple velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline. The fabric fell into folds around my ankles and in the dim light, the violet colored velvet looked almost silver. My feet were not hooked around the rungs of my stool, nor was I leaning with one elbow on the bar. The tips of my black-suede slippers just touched the floor and I sat straight with my hands folded neatly in my lap. The gray calfskin gloves I wore were fastened with small pearl buttons around my wrist. There was the barest glimpse of skin between the glove and my sleeve. I gently tugged on the cuff and turned to the bar.

Even as I turned, my back remained straight. My neck bent slightly as I looked at my drink, my small silver cigar case, my silver lighter. I reached to touch the rim of the full wine glass. The wine was full and red and rich. I would not drink it. It was not for me.

Slowly, very slowly so as to avoid any attention, I raised my hand to my face and ran one finger along my hairline. Just barely brushing the soft growth of peachy-gold hair. Then with casual deliberateness I touched the tip of my gloved-finger to the surface of the wine.

One drop of angel-sweat.

Not for me, but for someone else.

As I withdrew my finger from the glass I smiled, listening to the soft murmuring around me. How pleasant to be surrounded by such luxury. How delightful to sit and wait at this marble and oak bar for an inexplicable something to occur. It almost made me long for wealth and all the comforts it can provide.

I was fascinated by the redness and the quality of the wine in my glass. So, even when I felt the slight breeze whirl around me from the opening door, I did not look up. Even when I caught the faint scent of dead leaves and ink, I did not raise my head. Even when my still heart lurched back to life and tapped gently on my ribs, like a timid but insistent visitor, I did not lift my eyes. Not until I saw his stylish black shoes and tapered trousers next to me. Only then. Only then did I let myself stop looking at the wine glass to take him in, top to toe.

His boyish auburn hair brushed his collar and curled down his back. A few strands stuck to the moist pale skin on his neck. His eyes were on mine, so deep and blue they were almost purple. He looked somewhat somber, but there was a faint smile on his lips. The rich texture of his blue velvet frock-coat fascinated me as much as the red and faintly glowing wine had. I wondered briefly if I was suffering some fever or spell which would make me focus so on small tactile details. His hands were long and slender and reaching out for mine.

I extended my hand and he clasped it in his.

I looked directly into his eyes and smiled.

"Excuse my glove, M'sieur. I regret that I cannot remove it at this time."

He grinned at me, showing his beautiful sharp teeth. A mouth filled with pearls--somehow both delicate and fierce.

"'M'sieur?'" he mocked. "Mon ange, you know my name. Has it been so long? Will you not say it?"

"Rimi," I said, quietly. "Rimi."

At that he smiled with his lips pressed lightly together. A composed expression of pleasure. Neat. Courtly. Hiding something.

But it was so good to see him again! Despite myself, I was quietly thrilled to be next to him. This rich room, this cool and polished place--just exactly right. Just suited to Rimi. In one smooth movement he slid onto the stool next to me and leaned forward. His long legs bent and his knees almost brushed mine. Almost, but not quite. I shivered involuntarily. It would not be appropriate for us to touch at this time. I rested my gloved hands neatly on my knees.

Rimi eyed my silver cigar case and lighter. He looked at the wine glass, then shot a quick glance at me. I knew what question had briefly crossed his mind: Was it blood? I smiled as he looked once more at the wine, and away. No, this chalice contains wine, not blood. No, this cup is not for me; it shall pass me by.

Rimi, I wondered, do you hate me? Trust me? Love me? Can you love me? Can you be here next to me of your own free will?

(Could you love me still?)

I could not gauge what was in his eyes; could not tell what he was thinking. The pleasure in seeing me was genuine, but what of us, in this sanctuary of wealth and luxury? Was it something he had planned? Or hoped for? Surely not. And yet--

I looked else/other/where up and behind him. He looked at me with a touch of shame and defiance. No wings. Or rather, he still had his wings, but they had been bound. Bonds of silver and gold; dust and iron. Bonds of ink and celestial fire. He was not free to fly. He was temporarily Earthbound.

Exiled.

I opened my mouth to say something. My hand involuntarily rose as if to reach else/other/where, but Rimi lifted a finger to his lips.

"Hush, speak not," He said. And more softly, "Don't."

This wasn't the first time. Rimi's impetuousness was legendary among Us. (Not "Us" a small quiet voice reminded me. Not anymore. Not you. Anymore). He had suffered exclusion before. Always temporary, however. After he had been punished for a suitable amount of time, he was welcomed back into the Divine Fold with soft songs and the touch of feathers about him. Always he was accepted, like the prodigal son returning home. He would be appropriately penitent and diligent about his work upon his return. But from time to time Rimi broke the rules.

To be excluded from the {unintelligible} is nearly unbearable. Untenable. Unforgivable. As well I know, a wingless fallen one.

I could see now the desperate pain and desire around his eyes. The nearly imperceptible wrinkling on his brow indicating and almost unconscious concentration. How painful to have one's wings bound. To want, no, need to have release and be denied. To crave the love of angels and be turned away. To hunger for the soothing touch and sustenance that only the Kingdom's Keepers can provide and go without.

My own hunger began to stir in his presence. The smell of oiled leather and wine and smoke filled my nose and mouth. Everything seemed pungent and thick. I wanted to touch the dense and vibrant blue velvet of his coat. The semi-damp tendrils of his hair on his neck made my own neck ache and tingle. I wanted to be close to him, wanted to touch...

Yet I remained composed.

And Rimi's hurt remained isolated and faint around his eyes, his mouth.

He motioned for the waiter but I held up my hand.

"Please, take this," I said, indicating the glass of wine. I felt a sharp thrill of--fear, danger?--travel down my arms and tingle to the tips of my gloved fingers. I was uncertain as to why I was doing this. Uncertain as to why we were here, together. This was pure instinct. Pure action. Reaction. To the hurt and need and hunger that was slowly increasing in me. In Rimi.

He paused before he took it. His smile was gone, replaced with a more intense and somber look. And yet it was Rimi there with me. Serious and earthbound, but still the irrepressible Rimi. Angel of eloquence. Of wild and impeccable grace. Of impetuous action and grand gesture. Rimi, Rimi, who we all loved with our whole hearts, with our whole souls.

Rimi! Here with me now, taking the wine and holding my elbow. Gently guiding me to a dark curtained alcove leading onto a small balcony. And when he touched my elbow with his thin strong fingers even through the purple velvet of my sleeve I felt the spark of his need, his pain, his love and destructiveness.

And yet we moved with surety and purpose to the alcove, neither of us revealing anything. Our faces were pleasant and composed. Our movement, unhurried and poised. There was nothing inappropriate, here.

As we walked to the curtained alcove a sudden burst of male laughter erupted nearby. I nearly winced. The sounds of human voices were grating on me now, everything was more intense in the presence of Rimi, of another angel. I felt the faint rustling of his bound wings next to me and the corresponding ache where my own wings should have been. This much contact with him was driving me mad. I had to have more of him or none at all. His pain was hidden and throbbing and desperate but OH, how much more was MINE? How long have I been exiled, cast out with NO hope of redemption or return? Even the agony of his bound wings would be bliss to me, who had none.

I could have wept with compassion for him. I could have hated him with bitter envy for his luck.

With a slight tremor in my hand I grabbed the wrought iron railing. We looked out onto a dim and vast ballroom. In the gloom of a few lamps I could see the gold leaf on the painted ceiling. The heavy red curtains fell shut and muffled the sounds of human voices. We were alone, and standing in front of a huge, empty chamber. No sound but the gentle settling of dust and the faint sputter of the well-spaced lights.

Rimi reached out to touch my face but I quickly turned and grabbed the rail with both hands. I wanted it too much.

"{jxwxl}, mon ange, I--" he began

"You need something from me," I finished.

"Yes. Just so. And I have no right to ask it from you. None. But {jxwxl}, you were always the most compassionate, the most understanding..."

"Don't say it," I muttered.

He swallowed and continued: "You know. You know what this is like. You know...how I feel." His eyes became narrower, the faint lines around them more pronounced. "You know...this need."

"Rimi..." I warned, almost choking.

"You know!" he hissed.

I let go of the railing and turned to face him. He was griping the wine glass tightly. His other hand was in a loose fist. His mouth trembled and I could feel hunger, hate, desire, and love all battling for supremacy somewhere near my throat. Would I be able to speak?

The silence between us grew. If only the quiet motionlessness could take on form and substance. If only we could be comforted by that which isolates us. If only this abyss was a womb!

I could feel my mouth set into a line. Rimi was breathing hard and leaning forward, almost imperceptibly. My spine stiffened a bit as I caught a whiff of him--unbearably sweet and ripe. His divine breath and blood so close to me, calling out: Help me, help me. Bring water to cool me. Quench my thirst. I need I love I need I love--

The wine glass was shaking. Poor Rimi, so beautiful. In so much delicious agony. So enticing in his need. He was enchanting. Ever the favorite in Heaven, Always indulged. Honored son.

I began to deliberately pull on my gloves, one finger at a time, loosening and lengthening. Here I stood in the dark across from beloved Rimi: jewel, a true exile. A fallen one.

Had he ever come to me in my need? He who had moved with the Host to rip my wings from me? Dashing bold Rimi, loving Rimi who had helped push me from the precipice of the Kingdom...

Would that the silence could take us!

"The wine, Rimi." I said coolly. "Drink your wine, M'sieur."

With long slow swallows he drank it down. All of it. Every. last. drop. He placed the empty glass on the seat next to him with great care. I thought I could hear the squeak of flesh on glass as it slid from his grasp.

Now I was the one who was breathing fast. He seemed calmer, more focused. His blood, his blood...I could smell it beneath the velvet and ink of him. Infinitely precious angel-blood. My heart was skipping beats, unused to this strange pursuit, this unusual dance of need Rimi and I were playing out.

His eyes dilated. Now there was just a rim of deep-purplish blue around his pupils. My palms began to sweat in my loosened gloves--this wasn't right. He grinned, open and generous and inviting. My mouth wanted to form his name over and over, repeat it like a mantra or a prayer or an invocation: Rimi, Rimi, Rimi...

He took my wrist, his cold fingertips brushing my flesh. I flinched openly. He cooed at me, as one would sing to a dove. Or a little bird. A cat purrs to little robin redbreast.

The rich wine, the drop of sweat. I have often used it on my victims. The touch of angel-sweat on a human's lips can act as a soporific. My targets become languid and passive--they turn to me in a warm red rush of complacency and desire. When I release them, they drift in strange, lush dreams. It is a loving way to get what I need.

But that single drop of my sweat--for Rimi?

Angel to angel, passing between to exiles...his bondage and my blood-lust combining to create a strange hunger neither of us could foresee. I licked my lips as Rimi grabbed my arms and pulled me to him. My eyelids fluttered--I was shaking with an overpowering desire to bite and swallow him whole. I cursed myself for impulsively demanding he drink the wine. Rimi was the impetuous one, not me!

But where has my sense of responsibility taken me? I was a twisted mockery of what an angel should be. An abomination. Vampyre.

Perspiration prickled along my scalp. I was burning as if with a fever and my mouth was dry. I convulsed, once, and threw my head back. My grimace revealed cut diamond teeth. Glittering and precious. I could eat him, I could devour him...

I thought he was going to kiss me, try and close my fearsome mouth with his own soft lips, but instead he held me tightly and

licked

the line of sweat on my brow. My knees buckled but he held me like a child, like a tiny lost thing and ran his tongue along my hairline. His breath was cool and soothing. I sensed his many wings shifting and straining at their bonds. My scarred back throbbed in sympathy.

"Rimi..." I panted.

"{jxwxl}" he breathed on my eyelids.

We sank together into the massive chair and knocked the empty wine glass to the floor where it rolled and disappeared into the darkness. Rimi embraced me and rested his chin on my shoulder.

I writhed with pain and frustration and the weight of Rimi's comforting arms. One hot tear rolled down my cheek and burned a hole into the chair. Rimi murmured something and loosened his hold.

Shakily, I slid out of his grasp. He turned and settled in the chair, sprawling. With heavy-lidded eyes he looked at me, kneeling next to him. I could not stop panting, gasping for air--for his cool breath that I so wanted to inhale. Something to soothe my burning lungs. Something to dampen this fever.

"Don't...cry.." he mumbled.

Another fat tear dropped from my chin and landed on his cuff. Where it fell, the velvet turned red.

I let the silence come between us once again. Rimi gazed at me with sorrow and that hint of aching need at the corner of his eyes. I looked steadily back at him.

Finally, his blue, blue eyes closed. He was asleep. At rest.

A vein in his temple pulsed, but I turned away from it. Instead, I took his wrist and held it in my hot, gloved-hands. I inclined my head and put my lips to the tender flesh just below the heel of his hand.

And I kissed him, once. Hard.

(Rimi!)

When I had regained control over my breathing, I stood and smoothed down my dress. To stop the lingering tremors in my hands, I removed the gray calfskin gloves.

On impulse, I tucked the gloves in Rimi's outstretched hand.

Then I parted the weighty red curtains of the alcove and took my leave.

center

copyright 1996 by Julieann M. Brown-Micko

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