A Love Neverending Read online

  And so he watched each and every degradation.

  Punishing himself. For her.

  She stiffened her spine, straightened her shoulders, and surveyed the room once more. With a nod to indicate she was satisfied, she turned off the light and slipped from the room. Jason sagged, the weight of even his ghostly body suddenly too much to bear. He collapsed to the floor and sat with his legs splayed before him. How long was this insanity going to go on?

  Until one of them kills her.

  He really appreciated his mind throwing that answer at him, but it was probably true. A cool rush of fear made his skin pucker with gooseflesh. She'd continue just this way until one of them killed her. And then?

  The mouthy voice in his head didn't have an answer for that one. Would he be able to move on if she died? Would he see her ascend to Heaven, and continue his pathetic existence without the punishment of watching her? Without the joy of seeing her face? More than likely, she'd just find all the same assholes in the afterlife, and he'd be stuck watching her fuck them all again.

  With a grim shake of his head, he tried to pull himself out of his mood. He hadn't been this angst-ridden since the first morning he'd opened his eyes and realized he was dead. He grinned a

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  little at that. The first day hadn't been all bad. Once he'd done the usual—tried talking to people who couldn't hear him, walking through things instead of around them—he'd figured out he was bound more or less to the club.

  And really, there were worse ways to spend some dead time than haunting a nightclub. Then night had fallen.

  When he'd first seen Clarissa, he'd been a little confused. She'd always been pseudo-Goth, eschewing tattoos for piercings. Her clothing had been more subdued, black without the tatters. Her makeup had never been the over-the-top whiteface either, though she'd been pretty liberal with her eyeliner.

  But that night she'd been a mouse. Thin to the point of scrawny. No makeup whatsoever. Baggy clothes. Her lips had been pursed into a straight line of distaste. She'd looked sort of like an angry schoolmarm.

  That was his first clue that more than a day or two had passed. No one changed that quickly. He'd watched with interest as she'd made her way through the crowd, hunting for something. Some one, he'd realized a minute later when she'd made her selection. The guy had looked ordinary enough. Jason had followed them back to the room— this room—where the man had unloaded a series of things from his briefcase. Things Jason recognized, though he could only put a name to one out of every four. The man—Mihai—had laid them out along the table while Clarissa watched in fascination. He'd explained safe words and control and power play, and she'd nodded, but Jason could see her face. He'd known she'd never use her safe word. Never bother calling someone off if he went too far. His chest had ached. He'd called to her, talked to her, tried to persuade her—but of course, she couldn't hear him.

  They'd played until she was exhausted. Until her back arched with the pain. Until every inch of her body was marked by him. Not once did she tell him he had gone too far. Not once did she use the word he'd given her to make him stop. Mihai had looked disappointed. Frustrated. Even angry. Jason had known it was the man's own self-control that had kept her from being injured that night. It was only Mihai's own limits that left her bruised but not broken. Jason, from his vantage point, had seen the tears that leaked from her eyes. Had seen her fingers flex and loosen in their restraints while she fought some inner demon.

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  Then his heart had broken when the man rose, and Clarissa wasn't Clarissa anymore. She was a shell. As empty as the clothes she'd started keeping in the filing cabinet a few weeks later. The mask stayed in place. All the next day, the next night, the night after. The first time she'd picked up a guy to use and be used by. The only time it slipped was after. After the man was done. After he'd left. When the tears would slide into the tangle of her hair, and she would curse Jason. Or ask him why. Or beg for release.

  And Jason watched it all, unable to do anything else. Though he'd tried. Tried beating the men away from her, dragging them off her, screaming at them, at her…until all he could do was watch in stoic silence. He'd bear witness to each sordid encounter if that's what it took…and hope with every fiber of his being that she'd still be alive when it was over.

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  Chapter Three

  Tamiel jogged down the alley. His chest felt tight—like a hand made of ice had reached inside him and was twisting his heart in its cold grip. If he wasn't in time… A shiver racked his body. When he didn't make it in time, bad things happened.

  He glowered up at the overcast sky. “Yeah, I'll do what I have to.” A rumble of thunder, which sounded vaguely approving, came in reply. “I don't have to like it, though.” Another rumble of thunder—this one threatening—and Tamiel shrugged. It wasn't like he could lie about it, whether it made Him angry or not.

  Tamiel squared his shoulders and continued. He knew exactly how far he was from his current assignment, to the footstep. Three more, which he stretched into five by shortening his stride. The sky darkened a little, but Tamiel ignored it. He could prolong the inevitable, but he'd get to it.

  Here we go again. Inside the Dumpster. His stomach roiled. It could've been the stench—

  garbage and piss, really strong body odor—but if Tamiel were honest with himself, it had nothing to do with olfactory overload. It was what he knew he was going to find when he opened that Dumpster.

  He could hear it already, even though there was no way he could actually hear it already. Short, snuffling breaths between already-weakening sobs. He lifted the Dumpster lid, reached in with both hands, which closed unerringly around the tiny, squirming bundle. A tiny white fist wrapped around the tip of his dark finger, and his throat tightened over sudden sobs. Oh hell. The thunder rumbled again, and Tamiel barely flicked his gaze heavenward before turning to the bundle now cradled in his arms. I will do my job, Boss. I just still don't like it. Tamiel squared his shoulders. “It's all right, little darling,” he whispered. It wasn't all right, not at all. The world was really fucked-up if this was normal in any way, but he kept repeating the words. Soothing her. “Be at peace, dear,” he told the little girl in his arms. Her dark eyes

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  stared up at him, seeing him, registering his presence with an expression like confusion on her tiny little face. Kissing her eyelids, he watched sleep claim her. Then he watched as she drifted, her eyes flickering beneath her lids before she descended into deeper sleep. After only a few moments, her breathing slowed. He knew it was almost time and steeled himself for the inevitable. When she breathed out for the last time, he could see it—a pale blue cloud leaving her nostrils. He bent to gather the exhalation, and it swirled around the inside of his mouth, like he was tasting a fine wine.

  The soul was sweet, sweeter than any chocolate, beyond anything any mortal could ever imagine. Heartbreaking in its purity and innocence. The sort of flavor you craved; the sort of thing he never wanted to taste again. Like the world's finest chocolates layered over shit—the flavor was amazing, but knowing what it was…he could never ignore that. Tamiel tilted his head to the sky and blew the sphere of cloud out of his body and toward the heavens. The clouds separated for a moment, and Tamiel followed the little soul's progress. Watched the gates open. She hesitated, and he smiled encouragement at her. “Go ahead, little one. Have a better life next time around.” She dipped as though she was nodding, slipping through the gates with a little bobbing motion.

  Once she was gone, he tilted his chin downward and closed his eyes. “Perhaps when you do, you'll come back to something better than this shit.” Another rumble of thunder echoed around him. Tamiel shrugged. “It's been a while since you lived down here. The place has sort of gone to seed, sir.” A surprised flash of light split the sky, followed by a rumble of thunder that sounded suspiciou
sly like laughter.

  “Babies are born to sin, and so, go to hell. Nice.” Tamiel spoke softly, knowing He would hear him whether he spoke aloud or not. “One of Your more creative lies.” A little rumble—a warning, but a gentle one. His boss was often gentle with him lately, Tamiel realized, and he should be more grateful; he just…wasn't. “I know, I know. Not Your lie. One of Your prophets did the dirty work for you. Still. It was brilliant. People really believe You're a heartless bastard. Nice PR.”

  Tamiel wiped his hands on his jeans and retraced his steps toward the mouth of the alley. He wasn't finished. She was around here somewhere, beneath a pile of newspapers, perhaps, or wedged behind… Tamiel sighed and turned back around. Behind the Dumpster, of course. It

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  probably made sense to a human. Tamiel pulled it aside with one hand, and let its momentum carry it to the other side of the alley. The sound of metal on brick echoed around him when the Dumpster ricocheted off the far wall.

  She was on the ground with her legs curled up to her chest. Her right arm was outstretched, her hand still clutching a blade. She had blood smeared over her chest, legs, and arm. Lifeless eyes stared up at him, and he closed his own against the simple beauty of her face. She was young—fifteen, sixteen, maybe.

  Tamiel nodded at her, knowing his eyes were smoldering. He looked fierce, and he knew it. It was part of the job. He had to make them fear him. Although the fact that he was here suggested she wasn't an irredeemable sort. She had a chance. So he eased up on his fearsome self, just enough that she had a glimmer of hope. Enough that he might be able to capitalize on it later. “You left her in a Dumpster,” he finally said. His voice sounded much like the thunder rumbling around them. For good reason—the words were His, filtered through Tamiel. The girl's eyes widened, and her lower lip trembled.

  “I didn't want to leave her,” she whispered. Liquid shimmered in her eyes. A little thrust of her chin and a tilt of her head kept the tears from spilling over. Tamiel ground his teeth to keep any expression from showing but the fierce burn of his eyes, when what he really wanted was to cradle her like he had her daughter. “I didn't want her to be alone. But then, I couldn't let her see me like that.” The ghost-girl gestured at her own body, and Tamiel nodded. “So I left her close by.”

  “What did you think would happen to her?” A little less rumble in his voice now. The mother—this little girl who had given birth—bit her lip and gave him what was supposed to be a defiant shrug. It looked weak, frail, and completely pathetic. He knew, with that single gesture, she hadn't thought about it. She'd wanted to escape her pain and fear, and she hadn't really thought about what would happen to her little girl. Yet she also hadn't intended to leave the baby behind. She just…hadn't thought it through. Oh, these were the worst.

  Tamiel stepped forward. “I'll help you, little one,” he murmured, his voice entirely his own now, and cupped her face in both of his hands. They dwarfed her—the tips of his fingers almost

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  met at the part of her hair, while the heels of his hands touched at the base of her chin. She was tiny. Tiny, and so very young.

  Tamiel closed his eyes, finding it hard to meet her gaze. Then he lowered his face to hers and placed a gentle kiss on the bridge of her nose, inhaling deeply of her as he did. Her soul slid into his mouth, soft and warm. Not very sweet, however. She'd lived a hard life, and the residual sweetness—the little she still retained—was due more to her youth than anything else. Still, it was there, beneath the flavors of corruption. She tasted like salt and sweat and something a little desperate threaded through by the taste of chocolate-coated caramel. Tamiel fought down the urge to choke on it. He rolled it around in his mouth, sifting through each of the flavors, feeling the nuances of her life melt down into a single, rounded sphere. Tendrils of her existence slid down his throat and into his stomach. He could feel it seep out from there until it filled his body, a soft blue warmth that still felt alien beneath his skin. He ached to expel her. Instead, he set to work.

  The first view was always strange. Gossamer threads in every shade of the rainbow and beyond fluttered around a soul. Each color represented something different—friendship, love, family. They were the tethers to life. As Tamiel settled into place, the gold and silver threads grew brighter, while the others dimmed. They weren't important for what lay ahead. In the space of a single breath real time, Tamiel walked through her life with her. He stood like a cage around her as she relived every second. None of it could hurt her this time, but the memory of pain was just as poignant. Every bad choice was played out, only this time, the right choices were visible as gold and silver threads leading away from the situation. Her eyes widened at the beginning, where the threads were so tight, they were like a web, and she and Tamiel hacked their way through together. After a while, there were only one or two silver offshoots, soft and gleaming, though not as bright as they once were. As if that weren't enough, a thundering voice ran in a constant litany around them—a tunnel of sound that recited choice after choice, and which one she had taken. Her path grew steadily darker, and Tamiel's arms crossed protectively, which cradled her chest within his. He'd seen darkness before. It was all he ever saw in these moments, but he'd never grown used to it, and he'd been doing this a very long time. Eventually the silver threads

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  thinned, and they reached a moment where there were no off-shooting threads. Laysha sobbed within Tamiel as she relived it.

  “You did not choose to be raped, Laysha.”

  Tamiel held her within himself while the rape played out. He reminded her softly that this wasn't happening now; it was over long ago. Still, Laysha thrashed and sobbed, her pain very real, and he wished he could ease it for her. But she had chosen her death, and this was one of the consequences. A suicide's progress from life into the afterlife was never easy. It was the reason they perpetuated the lie that a person who committed suicide could never get into Heaven. They could, but their motives had to be absolutely pure, and there weren't many of those. Tamiel wondered if there was anything pure left in this world.

  The synthetic world around him darkened, and Tamiel used his position to tilt up her chin and make her examine the landscape around them. There were no silver threads, no gold threads. No choice in this moment whatsoever. Tamiel's voice was as soft, as gentle as he could make it, but it was still a voice imbued with God's will, and it sounded like softly muted thunder. “This was not your defining moment, Laysha.” He explained, but he wasn't sure she understood. “The moments where we have no choice are not the defining ones, although most humans look back and think they are. How many times did you think 'If only I hadn't been raped…'?” He watched her nod, slowly and sadly, a tear sliding down her cheek. “But that was not one of the moments that defined you, because you truly had no choice. Any option left to you in that situation still ended up the same way—you were going to be raped—it was only the extent of your injuries that changed.”

  Sobs racked her body, though she didn't let the tears fall, didn't give voice to the screams that all but tore her apart. They sped through her short life. Tamiel's eyes filled with tears he blinked away to watch the rest of her life with her. This was his job, and he wouldn't shirk it.

  They watched together in silence as Laysha ignored the last shining silver thread, so bright and so strong, he felt her wince at its beauty. She tried to turn within the circle of his embrace, to hide her face and block out the truth of what she saw. He couldn't let her do that, however. He stayed still, rooted to the spot, holding her to face her truth. “You could have taken your little girl to the hospital. A church. Any number of places where she could have been cared for. You might

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  not have been talked out of your decision to kill yourself. But you might have been.” The appropriate threads lit up, and the light caressed Laysha's f
ace. She flinched like she'd been slapped. “You could have saved her,” Tamiel said, hating himself for it. “And by so doing, you might even have saved yourself.”

  She took a very long moment. She examined that thread. Followed its very long, curling path to its fulfillment, as if she could actually see the life she could have led. Then she shouldered the weight of the decision she'd made, testing its heft, as if uncertain she could really carry it.

  Tamiel released her from the cage of his protective self and forced her to turn to face him.

  “It is very easy to see the right choices in the here and now, Laysha.” He sighed, his heart—did he have one anymore?—heavy with his task. He knew what the decision would be. He'd seen her life and seen her choices. And she'd had one, right up to the moment she'd died. Suicides were judged harshly, and unfortunately, there was no reason to think she could be redeemed. Tamiel closed his eyes. “God's will be done,” he whispered. But he knew how this was going to play out. It was the reason his hands felt leaden, the reason he hesitated a moment before releasing her from his grip. When he did, she didn't resist him, and that was probably the worst part of all. He watched her soul-self be dragged to her body before it went through the memory of the steps she'd taken to die. He could see her soul's eyes—now bright with knowledge she hadn't had when she'd killed herself. Her soul fought her body's hands, and Tamiel was forced to crouch beside her, holding her hand while she finished the job she'd started.

  When it was done, he stumbled back, just a step or two, to give himself a little distance. Tamiel wanted to close his eyes and block out the sight. It's too late, he thought, though she couldn't hear him anymore. She was locked in her old body, fighting an inevitable death now that she'd finally found a reason to live. These were the first stages of her own personal hell. He watched every agonizing second—part of his job, he told himself, but it wasn't true. His job was done, and he made himself watch so he wouldn't grow callous. He reached out with a single finger and moved it through the air around her body. The tethers, the few remaining multicolored ribbons binding her to life, severed and snapped away, floating on a breeze he couldn't feel.