“See, Beau gets it.”
The idea of being separated from Arwen is upsetting. Through most of my lives, she and Darwen were the one constant I had. I get her need to put things right with the witch who caused the two of them to perish all those years ago. Considering what I’ve dealt with lately, I would help her if she wanted me to. Oddly enough, she doesn’t. She wants this to be an adventure for her and Sebastian, which is actually very sweet.
The angel slowly gets to his feet and walks toward the edge of the woods while Beau and Arwen continue teasing me about the trip. I know it’s his way of telling me he wants to talk. I wait until the others are immersed in deep conversation and get to my feet to follow.
“What’s on your mind, angel?”
“I feel your worry. It’s troubling me.”
“Sorry about that. I’m struggling with you and Arwen leaving. I’ll try to do better.”
“You’re fearful she won’t be there is you start your next life.”
“It shows, I suppose.”
“Quite a bit, actually.”
“You’ll take care of her, right? I can’t imagine not having her with me, Sebastian.”
“I will protect her with my life. You know this. She is...”
“Special.”
“Yes, that she is.”
“You know, the big guy said you were able to stay here as long as you want. Being with Arwen isn’t a bad thing. If it were, I believe he would’ve said something.”
I see the smile slowly slide into place on Sebastian’s face. “I suppose, if I’m going to make Earth my home, I should blend in a bit.”
“Exactly,” I agree as I look back at Beau. The inner peace I’ve been feeling seems to grow even more.
“It’s not peace, Anala. It’s love. You’re in love. You’re happy. It’s allowed.”
“Can I feel love, though?”
His laughter echoes around us. “How can you ask that question? You’ve been feeling it all this time. Why do you think you were pained at losing Darwen? Why do you think you fear Arwen leaving you? Why do you think you’ve kept that smile on your face since you and Beau found one another? It’s love, Anala. You have become far more than what you were born to be. Your best life lies ahead of you.”
I lean my head against his shoulder as I let his words sink in. He’s right. I know he is. I may have been born in the fires of Hell to destroy the world, but love, real love, that’s what makes me so powerful.
Under the Moonlight
M W Brown
Wednesday, 27th January
Moon Visibility: 93%
Chapter One
GRAVEL CRUNCHED UNDER Paul’s trainers. He flinched and froze in his tracks. Although the sound was swallowed by the persistent rustle of the cool wind through the dry grass to Paul’s finely tuned ears it seemed as loud as a police siren. He waited for any tell-tale lights to come on in the farmhouse, silently cursing the homeowners for not paving their driveway.
Resentment bubbled in his stomach. The old couple not only owned a pristine, sprawling farmhouse with at least five bedrooms—four more than the dump Paul lived in with his brother—but had two Range Rovers and a Mercedes parked in a huge barn converted to a garage. When he’d peered through the garage window he’d seen stairs that probably led to a woodwork or craft room or whatever other shit these people did to find meaning in their overprivileged lives. It wasn’t fair that two people could own so much, with rooms and cars far outweighing their needs while Paul had to scratch around the outskirts of society, expected to survive on meagre government handouts and humiliating out-of-date remnants from the food bank. To top it all, they couldn’t even be bothered to lay a paved path around their house.
Paul tried to push his anger away. A good burglar was a calm burglar; that’s what his dad had taught him. Be professional, be prepared, and put emotions aside otherwise you’ll get caught. Another of his dad’s words of wisdom had been, “Don’t shit on your doorstep.:” That’s why Paul couldn’t believe his luck when he’d overheard a conversation in the pub earlier that evening. An alarm fitter had been on the phone to his boss explaining how one of the parts was faulty on the alarm system he was setting up at a farmhouse in Sandborn, but he promised to have it up and running the following day. Sandborn was over thirty miles away, far enough from his doorstep, and the way the two workmen were talking about the place, it would be well worth the drive. Sometimes all it took was the tiniest bit of luck and a few pints down the local.
Just a few hours later, while Tommy waited in the rust bucket, they called a van, Paul did a quick scout of the house that had the potential to be the haul of the decade.
A minute or so passed while Paul waited to see if his footsteps had alerted the occupants. The house remained dark and still. He turned his attention to the large sash window ahead, and he was suddenly bathed in soft light. Paul looked up. The full moon had slipped out from its blanket of cloud. He let out a slow, quiet breath, but his body remained tense. Although the household was still asleep, he felt as if the moon’s spotlight was following his every move. He trod slowly across the path and sprung the last step onto the flowerbed hidden in the shadow of the old brick house.
A crunch pierced the quiet night. Paul’s head snapped around, and he peered into the shadows around the carport expecting to see Tommy creeping towards him despite being told to wait for the thumbs up. Paul swore silently to himself. If he were to ever find himself behind bars there was no doubt in his mind it would be down to his careless brother who couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of professionalism.
Although he couldn’t see Tommy, and for that he was at least grateful, he could feel eyes watching him. He motioned at the shadows for his brother to stay put and then turned his attention back to the sash window. After checking one last time for any sign of movement in the room, he lifted his arms and tested the frame.
A deep, rumbling growl filled the air. Paul’s heart jumped, and he spun around. There had been no sign of a dog when he had skirted the property earlier. Perhaps it had been asleep and been disturbed by his clod-footed brother. Paul slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of dog treats. Always be prepared, his father had told him.
A shadow slipped between the garage and the line of conifers standing sentry around the garden. Something about its shape and the way it moved sent the hairs on the back of Paul’s neck springing to attention. Hunched over, the figure had darted silently and stealthily between the shadows. Paul hoped it was a trick of the moonlight that gave the silhouette its elongated arms and misshapen head but, illusion or not, Paul was certain it was neither a dog nor his brother.
While his head tried to make sense of his stalker, his hand slipped the dog treats back into his pocket and pulled out a pocketknife. He flicked open the blade and ran his thumb over the familiar dents in the handle of the last thing his dad had given him before he’d left for a “once in a lifetime deal” in London and never returned.
For a full two minutes, Paul stood like a victim of Medusa’s stony gaze. His chest hardly rose as he took the tiniest of shallow breaths. The only signs that he was not a bizarre stone ornament were the rippling wind through his hair and the darting of his wide eyes; they scanned the dark line of rustling trees watching for any unusual movement. The shadows bulged menacingly confusing his senses. He wanted to scream at the wind to stop its persistent tease of the branches.