Christmas Moon
Chapter Nine
"Perhaps we can sit and I can explain," he said. "Your children are safe. Perhaps more safe than you know."
I stared at his pleasantly handsome face as he regarded me in turn. His bright green eyes could have been emerald flames, if such things existed. He radiated waves of strength and confidence and...love. My mind reeled.
"Okay, let's sit," I said finally.
We did so, he in one of my client chairs, myself behind my desk. Ishmael was wearing a light-colored sweater and slacks. Both were unremarkable, although both looked good on him. He sat collected and at ease, his hands folded loosely in his lap. He looked at me calmly, staring into my eyes, although sometimes his eyes would shift to take in other aspects of my face. A small part of me wondered what my hair looked like.
"So," I said, "they call you Ishmael."
His eyes, which shone like twin sparks of emerald fire, flashed brightly with mild amusement. "Yes, they do."
I watched with interest as the bright streaks of light that seemingly only I could see, the bright streaks that illuminated the night world for my eyes, flared brightly the closer they got to him. Flared, and then disappeared into him. As if the being seated across from me was the source of the light.
Or perhaps its destination.
"So, why are you here, Ishmael?"
He sat perfectly still, perfectly composed, perfectly at ease. He nodded once before he spoke. "I'm here, in part, to tell you that my service is no longer needed."
"And what service is that?"
"The protective service."
My cell phone chimed. I had a text message from someone. At this late hour, it was either from Fang or Kingsley. I ignored it. Truth be known, I kept waiting to either wake up or be told that this was all some big practical joke.
In the meantime, I noted that Ishmael's thoughts were closed to me. In my experience, only other immortals were closed to me, as I was to them. And yet, he seemed to have read my mind.
I tried an experiment and thought: You're in the protective services because you're a guardian angel?
His bright green eyes, which had been regarding me serenely from across the desk, widened a little. "Yes, Sam. But we don't call ourselves guardian angels."
You can read my thoughts.
He smiled. "Of course."
To date, only Fang had access to my thoughts, and even then his access seemed limited by my willingness to let him in. Kingsley, a fellow freak, did not have access, nor did I have access to his. Same with the few other immortals I had encountered, who were all closed off to me.
"So, there are others like you?" I asked.
"Of course."
"And what do you call yourselves?"
"We are watchers."
I nodded. "And what do you watch?"
"I watch you, Sam."
"Just watch?"
"Watch and protect and guide."
"Then you've done a shitty job of it," I said suddenly, thinking of my attack seven years ago.
Ishmael kept his eyes on me. After a moment, he said, "I was with you, Sam. Always with you."
"Even while that animal attacked me?" I couldn't help the anger in my voice.
Ishmael said nothing at first, although he slowly raised a hand to his face and rubbed his jaw. He continued to stare at me. Even his minor movements were fluid and hypnotic. "Perhaps you wonder why you were not killed that night, Sam."
"Actually, I do."
"Perhaps you should know that your attacker ended many lives, Samantha. He would have ended yours, too. In fact, he was just seconds from doing so."
The so-called watcher lapsed into silence and continued rubbing his jaw. The physical movement seemed to intrigue him, and now he slowly ran his hand over his own soft lips, feeling them, using his fingertips as a painter would a sable-tipped brush. I had the impression Ishmael rarely manifested in the physical.
I was about to speak, but suddenly found speaking difficult. I was back to that moment in the park, experiencing again the ungodly strength of the thing that had attacked me, the blast of pain of being hurled against a tree...the fear of being pounced on by something so much stronger than me. Yes, I should have been dead many times over. So, instead of speaking, I thought: You saved me.
Ishmael briefly paused in his exploration of his face. "It wasn't your time."
"Then why let me get attacked at all? Why let me get turned into...this thing?"
"Fair questions, Sam, but we are not quite the guardian angels as you think of us. Not the static lighted angel on top of your Christmas tree, assembled by small children in an Asian country. Not the Michelangelo-ish ones painted on ceilings of cathedrals or glorified in Christmas carols and hymns galore. Not the ones in old movies on TV, getting our wings every time someone rings a bell. Not those angels. Not."
"Then what the hell are you?"
"Think of us as custodians of destiny."
I blinked, processing that. "You help fulfill destinies?"
He nodded. "I helped you fulfill your destiny, Sam."
"And my destiny was to become a vampire?"
"Your destiny was to become immortal. Vampirism was one way to achieve that."
"So, I chose this life?"
"You did."
"Why?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
"Why not?"
"You are not ready for the answer."
I fought through my frustration. "Will I ever find the answer?"
"Yes, someday."
I drummed my fingers along my desk, my thick nails clicking loudly. They sounded fiendish, like the claws of something dark and slimy moving quickly over the floor. I said, "So, in effect, the moment I turned into a vampire, the moment I became immortal myself, you were out of a job."
"That's correct, Sam."
"So, what have you been doing these past seven years?"
"Watching you, Sam. Always watching you."
"Why?"
He looked away, and as he did so, he looked very, very human. And even a little uncomfortable. He kept looking away as he spoke. "Because I'm in love with you, Samantha Moon."
I stared at his pleasantly handsome face as he regarded me in turn. His bright green eyes could have been emerald flames, if such things existed. He radiated waves of strength and confidence and...love. My mind reeled.
"Okay, let's sit," I said finally.
We did so, he in one of my client chairs, myself behind my desk. Ishmael was wearing a light-colored sweater and slacks. Both were unremarkable, although both looked good on him. He sat collected and at ease, his hands folded loosely in his lap. He looked at me calmly, staring into my eyes, although sometimes his eyes would shift to take in other aspects of my face. A small part of me wondered what my hair looked like.
"So," I said, "they call you Ishmael."
His eyes, which shone like twin sparks of emerald fire, flashed brightly with mild amusement. "Yes, they do."
I watched with interest as the bright streaks of light that seemingly only I could see, the bright streaks that illuminated the night world for my eyes, flared brightly the closer they got to him. Flared, and then disappeared into him. As if the being seated across from me was the source of the light.
Or perhaps its destination.
"So, why are you here, Ishmael?"
He sat perfectly still, perfectly composed, perfectly at ease. He nodded once before he spoke. "I'm here, in part, to tell you that my service is no longer needed."
"And what service is that?"
"The protective service."
My cell phone chimed. I had a text message from someone. At this late hour, it was either from Fang or Kingsley. I ignored it. Truth be known, I kept waiting to either wake up or be told that this was all some big practical joke.
In the meantime, I noted that Ishmael's thoughts were closed to me. In my experience, only other immortals were closed to me, as I was to them. And yet, he seemed to have read my mind.
I tried an experiment and thought: You're in the protective services because you're a guardian angel?
His bright green eyes, which had been regarding me serenely from across the desk, widened a little. "Yes, Sam. But we don't call ourselves guardian angels."
You can read my thoughts.
He smiled. "Of course."
To date, only Fang had access to my thoughts, and even then his access seemed limited by my willingness to let him in. Kingsley, a fellow freak, did not have access, nor did I have access to his. Same with the few other immortals I had encountered, who were all closed off to me.
"So, there are others like you?" I asked.
"Of course."
"And what do you call yourselves?"
"We are watchers."
I nodded. "And what do you watch?"
"I watch you, Sam."
"Just watch?"
"Watch and protect and guide."
"Then you've done a shitty job of it," I said suddenly, thinking of my attack seven years ago.
Ishmael kept his eyes on me. After a moment, he said, "I was with you, Sam. Always with you."
"Even while that animal attacked me?" I couldn't help the anger in my voice.
Ishmael said nothing at first, although he slowly raised a hand to his face and rubbed his jaw. He continued to stare at me. Even his minor movements were fluid and hypnotic. "Perhaps you wonder why you were not killed that night, Sam."
"Actually, I do."
"Perhaps you should know that your attacker ended many lives, Samantha. He would have ended yours, too. In fact, he was just seconds from doing so."
The so-called watcher lapsed into silence and continued rubbing his jaw. The physical movement seemed to intrigue him, and now he slowly ran his hand over his own soft lips, feeling them, using his fingertips as a painter would a sable-tipped brush. I had the impression Ishmael rarely manifested in the physical.
I was about to speak, but suddenly found speaking difficult. I was back to that moment in the park, experiencing again the ungodly strength of the thing that had attacked me, the blast of pain of being hurled against a tree...the fear of being pounced on by something so much stronger than me. Yes, I should have been dead many times over. So, instead of speaking, I thought: You saved me.
Ishmael briefly paused in his exploration of his face. "It wasn't your time."
"Then why let me get attacked at all? Why let me get turned into...this thing?"
"Fair questions, Sam, but we are not quite the guardian angels as you think of us. Not the static lighted angel on top of your Christmas tree, assembled by small children in an Asian country. Not the Michelangelo-ish ones painted on ceilings of cathedrals or glorified in Christmas carols and hymns galore. Not the ones in old movies on TV, getting our wings every time someone rings a bell. Not those angels. Not."
"Then what the hell are you?"
"Think of us as custodians of destiny."
I blinked, processing that. "You help fulfill destinies?"
He nodded. "I helped you fulfill your destiny, Sam."
"And my destiny was to become a vampire?"
"Your destiny was to become immortal. Vampirism was one way to achieve that."
"So, I chose this life?"
"You did."
"Why?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
"Why not?"
"You are not ready for the answer."
I fought through my frustration. "Will I ever find the answer?"
"Yes, someday."
I drummed my fingers along my desk, my thick nails clicking loudly. They sounded fiendish, like the claws of something dark and slimy moving quickly over the floor. I said, "So, in effect, the moment I turned into a vampire, the moment I became immortal myself, you were out of a job."
"That's correct, Sam."
"So, what have you been doing these past seven years?"
"Watching you, Sam. Always watching you."
"Why?"
He looked away, and as he did so, he looked very, very human. And even a little uncomfortable. He kept looking away as he spoke. "Because I'm in love with you, Samantha Moon."
