“Are you religious, boy?”

“I’m a Catholic.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Okay, yeah, I suppose I am.”

“Then I will tell you this much. Hell is about to come to Earth.”

She stood and walked to the car. It was clear the conversation was over.

The Angel awoke, unmoving. Only her eyelids fluttered open as she lay on the narrow hotel bed and stared at the man lying next to her. She knew from past experience that if she even twitched he’d awake instantly and she sometimes liked to watch him sleep for a bit. It was the only time his face was in repose, the only time his tense body was relaxed.

The sun had risen and enough light leaked through the partially drawn curtains in the Holiday Inn Express that a soft light illuminated Ray’s harsh features and hard-ridged musculature. He lay flat on his back, his head nestled in his pillow, his mouth slightly open, a thin line of drool running down to his jawline. She smiled at his adorable appearance.

Sometime in the night he’d thrown off most of the rumpled sheet so that it only partially covered the hip and leg nestling against her, but still enfolded her curves. He was always hot, his skin and flesh palpably warm to her touch. It was part of his ace metabolism. Her eyes drank in his nakedness, still marveling at the fierce beauty of it. She’d never felt ashamed at the feelings it aroused in her, not even when they were new, unwed lovers, despite the lessons her mother had tried to beat into her.

His scars somehow added to the attraction she felt. They spoke to her of the price he’d paid over the years. Of course over the years most had vanished, faded away because of his extraordinary healing powers. Some recently acquired ones still lingered, longer than they used to. That worried her. Ray hadn’t slowed down over the years she’d known him, but his ability to heal had.

But the long scar, the one that ran from his sternum to his groin, was still an angry red line stitched into his pale skin, straight and sharp as a razor cut. When they were new lovers it had taken her months to gather the courage to ask him about it, but he’d only laughed when she’d brought it up one night while they were in bed.

“That? I got that one on stage at the Democratic National Convention, back in 1990. That twisted little Nazi fuck Mackie Messer took off most of the fingers of my right hand and gutted me like a fish live on national TV. He could vibrate his hands like buzz saws,” Ray had explained. He’d fallen silent for a moment, remembering. “Not my best moment, but no one knew who the hell he was and what he could do, least of all me. But, see?” He’d held his hand out for her inspection. “They all grew back and work just fine.” He’d illustrated by caressing her breasts, teasing her nipples so that she’d shivered.